


A Song of Love and War

by RaymondHope



Series: Songs and Stories of the Seven Kingdoms [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Development, Everyone Has Issues, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, House Mormont, House Stark, OG Team Targaryen, Slow Burn, Westerosi Politics, everyone deserved better (side-eye at D&D)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 09:14:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 70,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23349007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaymondHope/pseuds/RaymondHope
Summary: AU where characters remain true to themselves, and go where I believe they should have gone.
Relationships: Grey Worm & Jorah Mormont, Grey Worm/Missandei, Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Lyanna Mormont/Rickon Stark, Meera Reed/Bran Stark, Missandei & Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister & Daenerys Targaryen, Tyrion Lannister & Jorah Mormont
Series: Songs and Stories of the Seven Kingdoms [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1679227
Comments: 205
Kudos: 170





	1. A Little Sooner

**Author's Note:**

> Season 7 & 8 fix-it.
> 
> Which means: Tyrion is still a strategic genius, Daenerys is openly kind, Jorah is not a minor character, Jon Snow still has a personality (despite being a certified know-nothing), Sansa is not Petyr Baelish 2.0, and a bunch of other things. (No insult to any character intended).
> 
> Also, one small change for the sake of my favorite Knight- Daenerys had left within a few days of receiving news about the Tarly’s break of faith and the ambush by Euron Greyjoy’s ships. As Jon Snow says, she wasn’t gone for long. That day Jorah finally reaches Dragonstone. This time, Jorah returns a little sooner.

Jon had just reminded her that she was supposed to be different, be better than those she was trying to defeat, when her children, flying over Blackwater Bay crooned in delight. She felt their delight in her own heart. Unfortunately, she could not be certain exactly what it was that pleased them.

“Everyone leave me. I wish to have solitude for some time.” They did as were told.

But clearly her solitude was not meant to last as on the cliffs she found Jon Snow, brooding as usual. She wondered if it was something characteristic in all Northern men. Jorah had – No, don’t go there. He’s gone and will never return. He’s in the past now, and she cannot look back or she will be lost. She had to forget the fact that he was the only one who had known the scared little girl she was, who had heard her children singing when they were still small enough to be held in a person’s palm. It mattered not that his smile and the books he gave her had once been the only comfort she had, and having him near meant nothing could go wrong, and she could do anything. That he was the only one who never treated her any different whether she was a clueless child or a confident queen.

She shook her head and spoke to the Northerner in front of her. The one who was alive and well.

“Lord Snow.”

“Aye?”

“If I may ask, have you ever done something you felt was wrong but knew was necessary?”

He took a deep breath and looked over the cliffside view before answering.

“I suppose that depends on your definition of wrong and necessary.”

“A political answer.”

“I once hung an eleven-year-old boy for treason. Sounds wrong doesn’t it? But that’s not the full story. He lured me into a trap and stabbed me. It wasn’t wrong because the punishment for baring steel against your Lord Commander is death. It was necessary, he refused to repent and honor demands that such acts not go unpunished. My father taught me a man is nothing without his honor. And my Lord Commander taught me to not forgive those who do not ask for it. I did what I was supposed to do... but I will never say I’m proud of it. Is that a straight enough answer for you?”

She swallowed at the image of a child being hanged, and nodded. “Sometimes we need to do things we can never be proud of. Sometimes one needs to kill a few for the benefit of the many.”

“The question is how many is enough. I liked the boy; he was like a little brother to me for a time. But that meant nothing when I hanged him. It had to be done, so I did it.”

Jorah had been dear to her as well, yet she couldn’t bring herself to have him killed. “However, sometimes people deserve mercy – a chance to redeem themselves, to atone. It’s possible that they might go on to make amends a thousand times over for their crimes. It’s our duty as their rulers to give them that chance.”

Jon Snow smiled slightly at her, for the first time since she had met him, he seemed… impressed with her. “I’m starting to understand why all these people chose you as their Queen.”

Brooding Northerners had their own charm.

* * *

Jon didn’t understand what those Dothraki said to her. Neither did he understand what she said. But he did recognise the look on her face. It was the same look Sansa had when they reunited at Castle Black. The look of sheer relief and joy at seeing someone you never thought would see again.

_Jon Snow, this is Ser Jorah Mormont. An old friend._

He knew that name.

_I served with your father at Castle Black, he was a great man._

This was Lord Commander Mormont’s only son. The one who’s sword Jon had received. The one who had broken the law and gone into exile instead of accepting justice or taking the black. The son whom Jeor Mormont rarely mentioned. 

Except that one time, when he’d had too much ale.

“You’re a fair hand with that sword, Lord Snow.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“Hmm. Jorah spent years training with it. He used it at Pyke and earned a Knighthood. You’ll never get a Knighthood, now that you’ve said your oaths, but you better not lose a battle with that sword in your hand.”

“I won’t, my Lord. I promise you that.”

“Don’t make such promises. Sunny promised that he’d never disappoint me. He did. Foolish lad. Could have come here, taken the black, worked hard and true to regain some honor. But he didn’t. Couldn’t bear to face me.”

“Sunny?”

“It’s what my wife called our son… her sweet summer child. The boy who feared his father more than the laws of men and the wrath of Gods. It’s a good thing none of us are allowed to father sons. The things we love destroy us every time, you remember that. It’s a cruel thing to have your child’s fear instead of trust. I’m tired now. Have those letters sorted d by morning, alright?”

The next morning he’d acted as if the previous night’s conversation had never happened. But Jon had understood two things. The first, that Jeor Mormont had loved his son, and the second that his becoming a criminal and leaving had hurt the Old Bear far more than he’d ever admit.

Looking at him though, Jon was rather confused. He was quite unlike his father. Where Jeor Mormont had been broad and intimidating, his son was lean and approachable. His eyes a darker shade of blue, beard not as thick and he knew for certain the Old Bear had never been blond or had curly hair.

He hardly looked like a criminal.

Nor was he treated as one.

The Dragon Queen, so far had been either aloof or fiery. With him though, she smiled in a way he had yet to see her smile.

She also ignored Jon’s existence after the brief introduction. They exchanged some words about finding a cure, and Ser Jorah Mormont pledged himself to her which she gladly accepted.

Hadn’t he fought _against_ the Targaryen’s during Robert’s Rebellion?

But then again, Tyrion was the son of Tywin Lannister and the brother of Jaime Lannister. Maybe she truly did believe in second chances.

Their embrace left Jon strangely uncomfortable. He was torn between looking away to give them some semblance of privacy and wondering what it would be like to hold her so close. 

Wait… what?

Before he could consider the direction, his thoughts were going in, she ended the embrace and he met his eyes for a moment looking slightly uncomfortable, wither with Jon’s presence or his Queen’s display of affection was anyone’s guess.

Even more when she spoke, softly, sounding nothing like a queen but an innocent maid.

“I’ve missed your company, Ser.”

“I’m sure you had other concerns-”

“None important enough that I would forget about you.”

Right, too personal. Jon cleared his throat. Daenerys whipped around and said, much to his mortification, “Oh. You’re still here.”

* * *

“With all due respect, that doesn’t make any sense. If Lady Olenna was the last of the Tyrells, then the Tarlys, the Lords of Horn Hill, were already the next in line to inherit Highgarden and the Reach. What could Cersei Lannister have possibly offered them to entice them to betray her? One of the Tarlys had died by Robert Baratheon’s Warhammer while the Lannister army sat at Casterly Rock… they wouldn’t have sided with a Lannister, especially not a woman.”

“Woman? Is that an insult Ser?” Not that Daenerys cared if Ser Jorah decided to insult Cersei Lannister.

“Not to women, but to the thought process of Lord Randyll Tarly. I’ve heard he’s a piece of work.”

“Well, I would suggest asking Tyrion, but he’s proven rather ineffective.”

Jorah shifted in his seat. “If I may speak freely-”

“Always.” Daenerys was not sure she appreciated her dear friend tip-toeing around her temper. He should know that she would not lose her temper with him for simply being honest. Despite his initial betrayal, he had never advised her poorly.

He cleared his throat. “Aye. So, what I was about to say was, I don’t feel that there was any way Tyrion could have anticipated the Tarly’s betrayal. It’s not often a bannerman breaks faith, and the Liege Lord should generally be able to get ahead of the possibility of it.”

“So, you’re saying it’s Lady Olenna’s own fault that she was murdered in her own home?”

“That was not my intention, no. I’m just saying that, from you’ve told me, the possibility of Tarly’s betrayal was too remote to be taken into account. It happens in war, and neither Tyrion nor Lady Olenna were formally trained in military tactics, they’re self-taught. There is a significant gap in what books teach us and what experience does.”

Daenerys sighed irritably and waved a hand at him. “Fine, we’ll ask Tyrion and Varys and see if they know something more. Now about Euron Greyjoy’s ambush… since you’ve been in wars, and spent years training in military strategy, could you have anticipated that?”

Jorah tilted his head back and gazed somewhere above her head. While he seemed leagues away, Daenerys took the chance to study him. His hair was a slightly greyer than what she remembered, and he had lost noticeable weight. She made a mental note to tell the cooks to ensure his diet contained plenty of meat and eggs.

“Had I been aware of Euron’s return to Westeros and his crown, I would have considered and prepared for the possibility of an ambush.”

“But Tyrion didn’t!”

“Nor did his nephew and niece. However, Theon Greyjoy was eight and Yara a few years older when he was sent into exile. None of them know him as I do. My reasons for planning and preparing are a personal inclination, not some military genius.”

“Personal inclination? What’s your history with him?”

At that, Jorah finally picked up his wine cup and took a long sip. He seemed unwilling to answer, and Daenerys almost told him to leave it be when he answered.

“Once long ago, when the Ironborn ruled the seas, Bear Island belonged to them. We have a bloody history. No Bear Islander would ever go out to sea without expecting and actively preparing for an ambush from the Kraken, nor would they ever leave the shores and granaries unguarded in the night. Had I been there when you allied with Balon’s children, I most likely would have objected strongly on principal alone.”

She wondered how many times he himself had lain awake at night fearing a raid. Her mind was filled with an image of a golden-haired boy with bright blue eyes shivering under a pile of furs.

“When I take my throne, no one will ever have to fear the Kraken’s shadow.”

“I know.”

He looked at her then, and smiled sadly. “I never intended you any harm.”

That was unexpected. “What?”

“My spying. I was assured by Illyrio that Varys only wanted you and Viserys watched, and that I would not be asked to harm either of you. Whatever I said to you, however I behaved, it was nothing but the truth. The lie was in what I never said.”

“I know. Varys told me what the agreement between you two was. And…” she hadn’t needed Varys’s assurance. She’d always known in her heart that she could trust him. He had his pardon, but he chose to stay. With her. That alone should have been enough for her to forgive him.

She took his hand in her own. “I trust you. I always have and always will.”

This time his smile brightened this gloomy castle.

* * *

Jon was watching his men hard at work mining the dragonglass. Hopefully they’d be able to get enough to arm everyone.

He was also quietly nursing the sting from Daenerys’s blunt, ‘You’re still here’ comment. Where else would he be? She had his boat, so it wasn’t as if he could leave. Not that he was willing to leave without her armies and dragons. The North needed them; Westeros needed them to fight against the dead if there was to be any chance at survival.

If only he could convince her of that. Tyrion was no help in this matter. Ser Jorah on the other hand… was Jeor Mormont’s son. Surely that meant something? Jon didn’t know anything about him. He wasn’t even sure if after all these years away in Essos there was any north left in him.

But if he was truly his father’s son, maybe he would listen and help him convince his Queen?

His thoughts were interrupted by Ser Davos.

“I hear someone new has joined the Dragon Queen’s council.”

“Someone old has returned. Lord Commander Mormont’s son. What do you know about him?”

“Ser Jorah Mormont? I know he’s the one of the heroes of the Siege of Pyke. I know that he, along with Thoros of Myr, were the first through the breach and are said to have killed the most men in the sixteen hours of battle, and that he came face to face with Euron Greyjoy. Sadly, that’s about all.”

“I was wondering if he might believe me about the army of the dead, if for no other reason than his father’s memory.”

“He might, if loved his father. But not all sons do.”

“Pardon me, Your Grace, I heard you mention the last Lord of Bear Island, Ser Mormont?” the question came from one of the men Jon had brought with him. A man, he realized with a jolt, from that Island.

He nodded, eager for more information. “He was once your lord wasn’t he?”

“Aye, Your Grace. Fer close to twenty years. He led us into two wars in ten years, and brought back ashes of every one who died. He was never anythin’ but good to us. He’s here you say?”

“Aye, he is. He’s sworn to the Daenerys Targaryen though. He might not be the same man you knew.”

The man frowned and looked down for a moment. “He’s a Mormont, he wouldn’t bend the knee to someone who doesn’t deserve it.”

“I see. And what about his crimes? My father called for his head but he fled justice.”

The man gave a slight bow. “May the Gods rest Lord Stark.” Rising he looked him in the eye and said, “Men make mistakes.” And left Jon wondering just which man he was talking about.

* * *

Tyrion, Varys and Missandei were seated in the room of the painted table waiting for their Queen and her Knight.

“I believe Mormont’s return has brightened the Queen’s mood, hasn’t it Missandei?”

Missandei smiled at him, the only woman who was never annoyed with him. Tyrion wondered if it were even possible for her to be angry with someone. “Indeed, Lord Tyrion. Aren’t you happy to have him back?”

He walked around a bit, stretching his legs. “I never thought I’d say this, but yes, I am pleased.”

“Even though his return means your tactics, at least on the battle field, will not be trusted?” Just leave it to Varys to stir up unwanted thoughts in his head.

“Well, he _is_ a war veteran. He’s even mentioned in the official record of the Greyjoy Rebellion.”

“Ser Jorah is a war hero?” Missandei was rather surprised.

“Didn’t you know? It was the last battle at Pyke that earned him his Knighthood.”

“It’s not as spectacular as it sounds. All I could think about while being sworn in was how badly I needed to take a piss.” And the man in question entered. Missandei laughed at his jape.

“How’s Grey Worm?” He asked, walking up to her.

Missandei smiled shyly, and said, “Better than one would expect.”

“Ah, keeping you happy, eh? Good.”

“Won’t our Queen be joining us?” Varys interrupted their two-sided talks.

Jorah took a seat next to Missandei, leaving Tyrion’s customary seat empty. “In a moment, she’s talking to someone from the kitchens.” Turning to Tyrion he said, “Your idea to capture Casterly Rock was a good one in my opinion. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.”

Tyrion picked up his wine goblet and raised it in toast with a strained smile.

“I sincerely hope you’re not drunk, Tyrion.”

He placed the goblet on the table without taking a single sip. “It’ll take a lot more than that to get me drunk, Your Grace.”

“I had some questions for you two,” Daenerys indicated Tyrion and Varys after taking her seat at the head of the table.

“I hope we have some answers.” Varys turned to her, placid as usual.

“Why would the Tarlys betray Lady Olenna when they were already in line to inherit Highgarden and the Reach?”

Tyrion and Varys glanced at each other before Tyrion answered. “We have wondering about that as well. Varys’ birds are out trying to confirm one of the two possibilities. It could be that there was a conflict between Lady Olenna and Lord Tarly which we were not told about, or that Lord Tarly is highly averse to supporting you, for what reason I cannot be certain as he did support your father. At the moment they seem to be only reasons why he could have possibly agreed to betray his Liege and pledge himself to Cersei.”

“I see. Regardless, we need the harvest from Highgarden or the armies will starve.”

“The only way to do that is to ambush and seize the carriages before they cross over Blackwater Rush. We need to leave within the next two days if we hope to beat them to the crossing.” He paused, “The best course of action would be to ambush them, with a dragon or two, and defeat them in open battle.”

Tyrion watched her tilt her head and think for a moment, her brows furrowed minutely signifying her distaste with the idea. “I’d rather not use them as weapons unless absolutely necessary.”

Tyrion nodded. “Then let’s discuss strategy. With the loss of Dorne, we might need the armies of the Reach. Not to mention, after all the deaths in the War of the Five Kings, that army probably consists of every able-bodied man in the Reach. Kill them, and you’ll have only women, children and destitute to rule over. The only way we can make this work is if Lord Tarly bends the knee. We need to get him to surrender without decimating his army.”

“You won’t be able to.”

All eyes turned to Mormont.

“Lord Tarly won’t surrender. He can’t. He broke faith with his Liege, the penalty is beheading. You can spare his son and family, but Randyll Tarly will have to face execution, and he knows it.”

Daenerys threw up her hands in frustration. “So, I can’t defeat his army in open battle, because it would lead to too many needless deaths, and he won’t surrender because he would be dead either way. What am I supposed to do then? Either way the only course of action seems to be to kill several thousand people, or as my father would say ‘Burn them all!’”

Tyrion winced, but still ploughed on, “That would not be wise Your Grace. The last thing we need is for people to think you’re anything like him.”

Daenerys’s glare stopped his tongue. He was still on thin ice; it would do well to tread carefully. Especially when the Mother of Dragons was breathing down on him.

Mormont of course, had no compunctions. The sullen knight had been welcomed back like a victorious hero by their Queen. Clearly that had given him some confidence. “If people thought that, they would fear you. Either enough to fight to death, or enough to throw down their weapons and beg for mercy.”

_Fear death… beg for mercy… that’s it!_

“I have an idea.” He held up his hand to stop Daenerys from whatever disparaging remark she was about to make, “Please, hear me out.” She nodded at him to continue.

“Randyll Tarly might never surrender, but the men under his command can. It’s not the common folk who fight to death. Only proud Lords and boys drunk on tales of glory do that. If we show the common folk that you have the power to destroy them, but do not wish to, they might throw down their weapons. Use the Dothraki, there is no army in Westeros that can defeat them in open ground. Have them break through the ranks and kill a part of the army without mercy. Follow them on Dragon back, burn a few things, have Drogon roar half a dozen times. Do whatever, just scare them. Put fear in their hearts. Then, step back. Address them. Say whatever you want as long it’s from your heart. The common people in Essos loved you for your heart, let the small folk of Westeros have that chance. Give them a choice, surrender peacefully and you shall ensure their wellbeing and protection, do not, and force you to kill them with their oathbreaker lord. They’ll surrender, if not all, then most of them. There will be nothing Randyll Tarly or my sister will be able to do if the people themselves choose you.”

Daenerys tried hard to contain her enthusiasm at the plan, but Tyrion saw the hope in her eyes. “Will it work?”

She looked around. Missandei and Mormont exchanged a glance, and Missandei answered. “I think it’s a good idea.”

“What do we have to lose?” Mormont added without his usual glower.

“Then it’s decided. Tyrion, Ser Jorah, prepare the Dothraki. Missandei, get the ships ready to sail for sail to the mainland. Varys, send a raven if you receive any news. We leave tomorrow at high noon.”


	2. The Art of War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Targaryen Army face off with the Lannister and Tarly forces. Will everything go according to plan?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A re-write of the S7 ep.04 - The Spoils of War.
> 
> I've never written battle scenes before, hope you like it!

The day was relatively quiet. It was the only reason Jaime could hear the sound of hooves. Tens of thousands of them, getting closer with each heartbeat.

“Shields and spears! Shields and spears! Hold the line! Don’t let them break through!”

The men were trained, and there’s nothing like a good dose of fear to get the adrenalin flowing spurring them into action. The lines were formed and all the gaps covered, not a moment too soon.

The wet nurses and nannies of children enjoyed telling stories of times long past and faraway lands. Stories of Essos almost always contained tales of the Dothraki screamers, how those savage horse lords killed for sport and relished trampling great cities under their hooves. How they looted and raped all they could, wherever they went.

He remembered laughing at Robert’s paranoia that someday Daenerys Targaryen’s son, half horse lord himself would come and plunder their Realm. He remembered saying that the day Dothraki crossed the Narrow Sea and came to Westeros would be the day he saw a dragon with his own eyes. 

“We can hold them off.”

Then he heard it.

A deafening roar that shook his bones, and for an instant stopped his heart.

And then he saw it.

A black winged shadow, rapidly flying towards them.

And before he could wrap his head around the fact that not only were there several thousand Dothraki screamers heading towards, but also a dragon, he saw a flash of silver white.

_Just like Rhaegar’s hair…_

Daenerys Targaryen. The Mad King’s daughter had crossed the Narrow sea and come to Westeros, and unleashed an entire horde of bloodthirsty savages on them.

At that precise moment, the Dothraki horde made contact with the end closest to the pass over Blackwater Rush. The Lannister army end. He turned to see their line be decimated within minutes. Before he could give the command to cover the gap, her dragon roared again. This time, it added a burst of fire. The breath of flame passed very near to where he was.

Jaime turned his horse and tried to stop it from galloping away in terror. When the fire lessened, he saw completely burnt corpses that turned into piles of ash when the wind blew at them.

The kind that the Mad King had laughed at.

_All those broken oaths for what?_

“Qyburn’s scorpion, get it Bronn. I can’t fire with one hand.”

The rest of the Dothraki made contact with the line. They broke through it in single file and began herding the men into groups of a few dozen, like cattle. The screamers kept riding in circles around them, like sharks playing with their hunt. Men began to break file and huddled together pointing their spears in every direction but with no uniformity. Meanwhile the blasted dragon spewed a streak of fire on the river’s edge, effectively trapping them with fire on one end and an army of butchers on the other.

The line was quite long, it was only a small part that had been lost so far. If Bronn could take down the dragon, they might have a chance.

“Archers, to me!”

As the black beast circled back he began giving commands.

“Nock!” The beast was almost done turning high in the air. From here he finally understood his little brother’s obsession with them. They were glorious beasts.

“Aim!” It was heading towards them. No doubt the lost princess had spotted them.

He waited. The dragon was fast, like an eagle.

“LOOSE!”

A volley of arrows shot straight at it, and Jaime prayed at least one of them would find it’s mark in the rider on its back.

It puffed its chest and flared its wings. They all bounced harmlessly against its scales. It continued its descent towards them and released a mighty roar then banked sharply flying so close over their heads that all the men threw themselves on the ground trembling in fear. Jaime barely managed to not fall off his bucking horse.

 _Well_ , he thought with so much salted irony it would have killed his father, _at least it didn’t decide to burn us_.

* * *

Tyrion and Jorah stood on top of the hill overlooking the field, next to Qhono, the first blood rider of the Khalasar.

He spoke in Dothraki, his common tongue still needing much work. “Your people don’t know how to fight.”

“And yours don’t know how to read. You don’t see us rubbing it in your face.” Tyrion shot back.

Jorah ignored them. “Let’s hope this plan works and everyone surrenders. If they don’t, we’ll have no choice but to defeat them in battle.”

“You don’t need to tell me, Mormont. To not send innocent people to their graves has been my entire strategy so far.”

Jorah nodded. “They ought to be smart; just drop their weapons and run. Like that one over there. No proper armor, looks like a sellsword.”

Tyrion looked to where he was pointing. “Bronn!”

Jorah turned to him. “Friend of yours?”

Tyrion gave him a quick glace and muttered, “Something of that sort.”

Jorah turned back to see him being pursued by a Dothraki. “Is he seriously planning on hiding inside a carriage until this is over?”

The Dothraki pursuer climbed onto the front of the carriage to get him out, and was thrown back and left impaled to the back of another carriage with a bolt bigger and thicker than any spear either of them ever seen sticking out of his chest.

“Tyrion, did you see-”

“I did.” Just then the covers of the carriage came off revealing the biggest crossbow anyone had ever seen. “Cersei’s spies must have found out that Drogon was injured by spears in the fighting pit. Bronn needs to be stopped.”

Jorah turned and shouted at Qhono to fetch him a horse. He quickly mounted and rode off towards that giant crossbow. Tyrion watched him go and started looking for Lord Randyll Tarly. He needed to be captured so they could give him the choice, surrender and go the wall or be taken hostage along with his wife and daughter. It was the only way to get his son’s loyalty away from Cersei- bend the knee and your family will not be harmed.

* * *

Jorah weaved his horse through the mass of frightened men, Dothraki, fire, fallen weapons and spilled goods to get to that sellsword with a crossbow as soon as possible. His only focus was getting to him, which was his error in judgement. One that could have cost him his life if his instincts hadn’t been good.

He never saw the lad barrel towards him. But he did feel it when a horse came and slammed into his throwing him into the air ten feet above the ground. Remembering his training, he twisted his torso and rolled onto the ground letting his armor protect him from the worst of it, instead of landing in a heap. Despite his best efforts, the fall left him winded and disoriented. The man who’d knocked him down dismounted near him and came at him with his sword raised. Jorah didn’t have time to draw his own, so he grasped the nearest thing he could and threw it with all the strength he could manage at his assailant. It was an abandoned half-broken shield’s flat side hit the man’s head, knocking him unconscious.

The delay cost him precious time, he realized as he saw a bolt fly through the air and find its mark in Drogon’s shoulder, where his wing joined with the rest of his body.

Drogon shrieked in pain and began to tumble from the sky wildly flapping his wings stop his fall.

_No, no, NO! Please hang on!_

Jorah cursed and ran towards the crossbow. He drew his sword and swung it at the legs of the sellsword. Bronn jumped out of the way, abandoning the crossbow, just as Drogon was able to get the wind under his wings and straighten.

Drogon hung in the air in front of the crossbow. Daenerys looked to him as he used his sword to cut the ropes that enabled it to function.

Without exchanging any words, she waited until he was out of her line of fire before having Drogon burn the entire thing.

While Daenerys flew off to land Drogon in a relatively quiet corner to get the bolt out of him, Jorah looked around to see if he could find Randyll Tarly.

But it would seem that Randyll Tarly found him first.

He heard the distinct _swish_ of metal as it cut through the air, instinctively ducking his head and bending his knees while spinning around. The blade passed far too close to his head for his liking.

“Have you no shame?”

Jorah put a few feet between them with his sword held out in front of him. “You’re the one who broke faith.”

Tarly lunged at his left shoulder; Jorah dodged. They circled.

“I did what was best for my family.” Tarly tried a feint to Jorah’s sword side, but he didn’t fall for it.

“Did you? You were going to get Highgarden anyway, why kill her?”

“The bitch refused. I asked her as soon as the news came and she said she’d rather have the stable boy inherit it.” Tarly went for his leg, Jorah jumped back but not fast enough. Instead of losing his leg he got a clean cut just a few inches above his knee. Blood flowed freely, the wound stung.

“So you agreed to follow Cersei Lannister? The one who killed your true Queen, your liege and his heir over some words said by a grieving old woman in anger?”

“Say what you will about Cersei Lannister, at least she was raised in Westeros unlike your foreign whore and her army of savages.”

This time Jorah struck and managed to get a cut on Tarly’s sword arm.

Tarly swung his longsword high above his head, Jorah idly wondered why he wasn’t carrying the family’s Valyrian greatsword. “I did what I thought was best for Westeros. And you ought to be ashamed of who you follow.”

Jorah ducked out of the sword’s arc and blocked the second strike as well, their blades locking together.

“Are you really telling me that Cersei Lannister is the best for Westeros?”

“She’s better than the Mad King’s daughter.”

Jorah spun his sword arm in a wide circular motion in front of him, breaking the lock, followed it with a sharp strike to the hilt with the flat of his blade, and spun his sword using his wrist, twisting Tarly’s sword out of his hands, disarming him. The sword landed out of his reach, and Jorah took the opportunity to stab him in the thigh, forcing his opponent to stumble.

“She’s not her father.” He held his sword to Randyll Tarly’s neck, “Yield.”

Randyll Tarly glared at him with an almost maniacal look in his eyes. “Never.”

Without warning, he grabbed Jorah’s sword with both hands and threw himself onto the blade, before Jorah could understand his intentions and move it out of the way. The body crumpled at Jorah’s front, freezing him in place with shock and horror, his sword impaling Tarly’s neck, blood flowing freely onto his hands, dripping from the hilt, and spattering everywhere, on his face, on the front of his armor, on the grass.

* * *

Jaime looked around. The entire army, Lannister and from the Reach had scattered and were being herded like cattle. Half the field was on fire. Thankfully, most of the carriages were intact, but they were seized by the Dothraki. Qyburn’s scorpion had been destroyed, and Lord Tarly and his son were nowhere to be seen.

_All those broken oaths for what?_

He watched as the dragon, ‘Balerion, the Black Dread, second of its name’, as Jaime decided to call him in his head, landed at the as yet unburnt edge of the black water and threw aside some soldiers brave enough to attack it, and roar at the rest.

And then he saw his chance to end the war before it destroyed them all.

Daenerys had climbed down from the dragon and was trying to get the scorpion bolt out of the beast. She had his back to him.

_Kingslayer. Might as well be a Queenslayer._

He grabbed a nearby spear, held it with his right elbow and used his golden hand to keep it steady. His horse galloped at full speed along the edge of the river to get him to his destination. Something alerted her to what was happening behind her back. She turned and looked at him.

And just before the dragon brought around his head to breath fire at him, he saw her face.

He saw it and it was all he could see as Bronn leaped and pushed him off his horse and into the Blackwater.

He saw the Mad King’s daughter’s face. He looked the Dragon Queen in the eye just before her dragon came to burn him.

And he saw an emotion that he had never seen in her father’s face.

But one that he had seen in his own daughter’s face. How could he ever forget how Myrcella had looked at him as she lay dying in his arms?

The look would haunt him for many nights to come.

 _Fear._

* * *

“Need a hand?”

Daenerys turned around to face Jorah. He was covered in blood and looked as tired as he sounded. A gasp slipped out of her upon seeing him.

“It’s not mine. Well, mostly.” He shrugged.

Drogon crooned softly and bent his head to sniff him. Jorah, used to the dragons curious inspections stood still except for extending his right hand, palm upwards, and let him do as he pleased. Once satisfied Drogon snorted smoke from his nostrils and pulled back his head to allow him to approach.

While Daenerys hadn’t been able to get the huge bolt out, Jorah managed to pull it out with two tugs. He examined the point for a moment before tossing it aside.

“I wish to apologize, your Grace..” He said, avoiding her eyes.

“For what Ser?” She moved closer to him.

He swallowed. “I killed Randyll Tarly. He threw himself on my sword instead of yielding.”

She let out a slow breath. “His son?”

“I don’t know. Tyrion saw our fight and his brother foolishly charge at you. He’s having the Dothraki round up everyone to the rock outcrop on that hill,” he said turning to point over his shoulder, “It’s over. For now.”

“We’ll have to change tactics,” she placed her hand on his forearm to stop him from tightening the leather straps he tied around his palms. Looking at his face, she felt compelled to add, “I’m not angry at you, my sweet bear.”

He stole a quick look at her and seemed to relax instantly, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly.

* * *

Randyll Tarly was dead and his son, Dickon Tarly had been knocked unconscious, both by Jorah. Daenerys looked over to where he was washing off the blood from his armor. He _was_ leaner than what she remembered.

“He did neither on purpose. Surely you realize that Tyrion?”

Tyrion followed her gaze and sighed. “I do, your Grace. But that doesn’t make our situation any easier. Let us hope that your speech can convince Dickon Tarly to bend the knee without further bloodshed. If not, we can take what remains of his family as hostage and return them when Cersei is taken care of.”

Daenerys grimaced. “I will not put people in chains-”

“We have been over this. They will not be in chains; they’ll have freedom on Dragonstone to do as they please and will be taken care of. It will only be temporary if it comes down to it- we’ll send them home once you have the throne. Now come, it is time to address the people.”

She nodded and stepped up to address them. She took a deep breath and raised her voice to be heard over the din.

“People of the Reach, allow me to introduce myself. I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. Years ago, perhaps when many of you were still children, Robert Baratheon rose in rebellion against the crown. The Reach, was among the strongest and most steadfast of the Targaryen supporters. For that, I thank you.”

The people shifted, some of them looking wary, some suspicious, others tired and confused at what was happening.

“After the Rebels won, they had my entire family slaughtered, from the youngest babe, barely a year old, to my father and eldest brother. My brother and I spent years in exile, many times our only shelter and food would be the hope that one day we would return to our homeland and retake what was stolen from us. My brother was not known for his kindness, but in praises for the loyalty of the Reach he was most generous.”

Some people began to relax, others tensed wondering if this was the calm before the storm.

“When I arrived in Westeros, on Dragonstone, my family’s ancestral seat, I was greeted by your true liege, Lady Olenna Tyrell. She proved my brother’s words true and swore to me the loyalty of the Reach, to help me reclaim the Iron Throne. The same lady Tyrell, whose entire family was slaughtered by Cersei Lannister.”

“I know the lies Cersei Lannister must have told you about me. That I am a foreign whore, here to plunder your houses, kill your children, have my army of savages rape your wives and daughters, and to burn down everyone and everything using my dragons.”

The people shifted again, most shuffling their feet, trying to look anywhere but at her. Tyrion though, could hardly take his eyes off her. When Mormont had told him that he believed in her with all his heart, he had scoffed at him for being a fool in love. But seeing her now, he knew that this would be the only Queen he would die for.

“I assure you, they are all lies. For if I had wanted to burn down everything, then tell me- what is holding me back? I did not come here today to murder you or your children. I came because without the food of the Reach, my armies would starve.”

 _Wait,_ thought Tyrion, _this wasn’t part of the speech we discussed on the way here_. He made to interrupt, but a heavy hand on his shoulder stilled him. Mormont shook his head and gestured to let her continue.

“I have been a princess only in name for most of my life. I know what is to go to bed on an empty stomach. I could not let the people who have chosen to follow me, my people, starve. I came with an army and one of my dragons, because having them here was the quickest way to end the battle. I ask your forgiveness for any and all that have died today.”

Some of the men seemed impressed with her candor, others surprised.

“I know what it is to be at the mercy of the rich and powerful. To be subject to the whims of men drunk on wine and power alike. To be forced to bend to their will, to have none of your own.”

Now some of the men where starting to look sympathetic. _It’s working_ , thought Tyrion, _they might just love her_.

“When I was younger, I was weak, with no one to protect me. Until, one day, I decided to _be strong_. I _grew_ , and I took back the power others had over me. I rose and showed them my strength. I did not have anyone to protect me, so I decided to be a protector! I swore to protect those who would freely follow me and to destroy those who would wish us harm. The world had not treated me kindly so I decided to rebuild a better one. I started in what was once slaver’s bay, in Essos, the land that sheltered me while I yearned for my homeland, Westeros. Now, I have returned to my birthplace, to reclaim the throne my ancestors built and ruled from bringing peace and prosperity to the Seven Kingdoms. Because I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen and I will take what is mine, with fire and blood I will take it!”

Parts of the crowd cheered. Of course, they did. All the stories went like that. The small folk loved the tale of a poor little hero rising to the top. And who was more of an underdog than an exiled, orphaned and lost princess?

“Will you fulfill the promise your liege made me? Will you join me in my new and better world?”

The cheers rang out. Men raised their arms over their heads, others beat their chests with their fists. Not all, but many of them.

“STOP IT! ALL OF YOU… _STOP!_ ”

A shocked silence fell over the gathering. Daenerys calmly looked over to the young man who’d shouted for silence.

“Come forward, my Lord.”

The men parted for Dickon Tarly who strode forward with his head held high, and emotions barely in check.

“You killed my father. He was the Lord Paramount of the Reach. I will not bend the knee to you.” He threw the accusation at her face.

“Only because he chose to betray his Liege and seize the title. And he did it at the behest of the woman who effectively slaughtered all of House Tyrell. He was a traitor.”

“No… No, he wasn’t! The Tyrells betrayed the crown by allying with you.”

Tyrion stepped up and this time no one held him back. “The crown? Do you refer to the crown that belonged to Queen Margery, the daughter of House Tyrell? The same house you had been sworn to all your life until recently. Be grateful we haven’t taken your head for breaking faith with your liege. The Tyrells and your own house stood by House Targaryen when Robert Baratheon rebelled. Cersei Lannister destroyed that house. She killed them without mercy and then took the throne for herself. And just so you know boy, your father was given the chance to yield. He chose to throw himself on his opponent’s sword.”

“She.., I..., father said she was our true Queen, so we followed her and fought against her enemies.”

“Yes, _her_ enemies, you foolish boy. Were the Tyrells your enemies as well?”

He didn’t reply but the look on his face just before he ducked his head let them know that he did not think of those men as his enemies. Daenerys could see Tyrion getting through to the boy. He was yet young, not used to making judgements or decisions. Still naïve. She hoped he wouldn’t put her in a position to harm him.

Dickon shook his head, as if he could shake the words out. “Who was the man who killed my father?”

Daenerys and Tyrion exchanged a quick glance but Mormont was too stubborn to be stopped.

“I was. And it is indeed a great irony that while one Tarly saved my life, I ended another’s life.”

“I didn’t save your life- I was planning on killing you when I knocked you off your horse!”

“It was Samwell Tarly, sworn brother of the Night’s Watch and Maester in training who saved my life at the Citadel.”

Dickon looked stunned. “My brother, Sam… he saved your life?” he asked incredulously.

Daenerys and Tyrion glanced at each other and silently agreed to let them continue.

Jorah nodded, “Aye. The treatment was dangerous and forbidden. He risked his position and possibly his life for me. He did what no one else would try; it was very brave of him. I’ll always admire him for it. Your father on the other hand, before dying he all but admitted to betraying his liege because she insulted him while overcome with grief.”

Dickon blinked furiously and looked down, suddenly seeming very unsure of himself. He muttered, to himself mostly, “My brother... brave?”

Jorah answered him anyway. “It’s not a sword that makes you courageous, it’s your heart.”

Daenerys waited to see what he would say, but the Tarly boy just seemed lost in thought. Daenerys took her chance. “A father is always a child’s first hero. It’s disappointing to know that he was never as great as you thought him to be.”

Dickon glanced up at her.

“As their children, it is our duty to be better than they were. Today you have a choice. You can either be like your father, your brother, or your own man. What do you choose Dickon Tarly?”

The lad’s eyes went from Daenerys to Jorah to Tyrion, to his men gathered around him. Tyrion realized he was witnessing the moment a boy became a man. “My brother is no fighter. I am. My father could be cruel. I’m not. I know what I would choose.”

He stood tall and declared in a clear voice that rang out and might one day belong to a warrior worthy of songs, “All hail the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

This time, all the men cheered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Dickon Tarly... I've always felt his potential was wasted. He could have had some great character development had he been given the chance.
> 
> In the episode where Samwell is at Horn Hill with his family, Dickon responds politely to his questions, but doesn't make a move to actively engage in conversation. Later, when their father insults Sam terribly, we can see him just staring at his plate, trying to be invisible and looking very uncomfortable. The next time we see him, he's saying the battle was glorious, which Bronn claims to be a rehearsed line for his father's ears. Then he tells the truth that he had been sworn to the Tyrells all his life and he went hunting with some the men he fought against. Jaime feeds him some bullshit about the Tyrells betrayal to the crown (as if Cersei didn't just murder almost the entire family -_-) but even though he nods, he doesn't look convinced. Later, he steps up to defend his father, and when asked to be smart and bend the knee, he looks to his father and seeing him nod, announces his decision. 
> 
> So here's my interpretation of him: he has nothing against his brother but is too scared to actually stand up to his father in anything at all, maybe he doesn't want to do anything to jeopardize his position as the favored son, maybe he fears he'll be treated the way Sam was if he doesn't be a good son and do as he's told. 
> 
> And in this universe, his father's dead, and the man who killed him is saying that he admires his brother and owes him his life.  
> This time, Dickon Tarly gets a chance to make his own choice knowing that his father is not that great and his brother is not as worthless as his father would have them believe. This is what I think would be his choice.


	3. The North Remembers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For personal reasons I have decided to allow Rickon Stark to survive the battle of the Bastards. The arrow hit his shoulder not his heart. Jon was still named King, because Rickon is too young and has been in the wild for too long. Rickon is Jon's heir. He, Ned Umber, and Lyanna Mormont are the same age- closer to 13 than they are to 12.

Her children have always been picky in eating and prickly in meeting, more often than not both. They rarely let anyone near. And the ones they had, were those who were in their hearts true and meant her no harm.

They also treated people based on how people behaved with them. Missandei was always respectful towards them, and the sentiment was returned. Grey Worm was wary, and as such her children took great pleasure in playfully snapping their jaws whenever he was near, without ever coming close enough to threaten him. Ser Barristan had once made the mistake of calling them nuisances when they weren’t letting her read. The next day he had complained to her how Rhaegal and Viserion had chewed up his boots. Tyrion had been allowed to approach without her presence when he had gone to unchain them. Upon finding out she knew that he could be trusted. Jorah had received plenty of small cuts and scratches from them when they were younger and he was the only one other than her who had been able to coax them into their cages. Until a few minutes ago, other than her, he had been the only one Drogon let near.

_There must be something special about him,_ she thought as she climbed down from Drogon and looked at Jon Snow. For what other reason could there be that someone they barely knew was approached by her most willful and tempestuous child?

“Consider yourself fortunate Jon Snow. Drogon is very particular in who he allows near, more so than Rhaegal and Viserion.”

“My direwolf, Ghost, is like that too. If he lets someone near, that means I can trust them. If he growls, I know to be wary of them.”

“The sigil of your house is a direwolf, is it not? I was told they were extinct.”

“I was told the same about dragons.”

They’re eyes met, and they laughed.

When they had calmed somewhat, Jon began “You weren’t gone very long? What happened?”

Daenerys turned to him. “Randyll Tarly is dead, but his son has bent the knee. And before you ask, he did so of his own will and not under the threat of dragonfire.”

“You executed Randyll Tarly?”, Jon didn’t sound particularly distressed by this news.

“He chose to kill himself rather than yield when disarmed in single combat.”

Jon frowned for a moment, then shook his head.

“So, your army has grown now that you have the Reach?” He looked at her intently.

_This again,_ she thought. “Yes, though if you want the exact details of the army of the Reach, you will have to ask Ser Jorah. As my highest ranking General, it’s his duty to keep track.” _Let Jorah deal with these stories of the Army of the dead._

He inclined his head. “I have been meaning to talk to him.” At her look he added, “I was wondering where I had seen him before. Soon after the Greyjoy Rebellion, I remember meeting him at the Harvest Feast at Winterfell. As my father’s bannerman, he was in attendance. We were only children then, but I remember Robb being impressed by him and wanting lessons in sword fighting. I’m not sure if he ever got them though.”

This was news to Daenerys, and it planted a thought that had never occurred to her so far. She remembered hearing of the Red Wedding, and Jorah’s reaction to it. He hadn’t said anything at all, instead choosing to distance himself from everyone until the news of Joffrey’s death came to them. Ser Barristan had told her that people he knew, possibly his own kin had been killed, so everyone had let him be. But now she wondered, was his mourning for the boy who might have been his king had he not been exiled?

“How long have you two been together?” Jon’s voice brought her out of her thoughts.

“Me and who?”

“Ser Jorah.”

“Since the day I first met him, at my marriage to Khal Drogo. We were separated for a time, but he found his way back to me. More than once.” He always came back to her. Not to the North, not to the Baratheons, or Starks, or anyone else. Always to her. If he spared a moments grief for the boy who named himself King in the North, then what did it matter?

“That’s… surprising. I take it your husband never found out?”

“Found what- Oh. Lord Snow, I believe you’re harboring some misconception. Ser Jorah is a dear friend, my dearest friend in fact, but not my romantic partner. We have never been together in that sense of the word, and will never be.” Daenerys made sure to stress on the last part. It would seem that like Xaro Xhoan Daxos, Jon Snow had also seen and recognized Jorah’s affection for her.

“Oh. My apologies, I just thought… never mind.” He smiled and looked remarkably relieved. He looked better when he smiled.

They talked some more about the battle, and Jon tried once again to convince her to come to the North to fight this mythical army of the dead, and she once again told him that if he agreed to bend the knee, she would. He left soon after to search out Ser Jorah.

It was an impossible circle, with neither willing to give. He didn’t want to trade the North’s independence for her armies and dragons and she would not just abandon everything and march up there with him without getting anything out of the arrangement. As things stood, since they weren’t her kingdom, she did not have a duty to go and defend them. Not to mention he claimed to have at most ten thousand fighters, which could hardly help her in the war with Cersei. Either way, Jon Snow asked for too much but gave nothing in return.

* * *

Jon and Ser Davos found Ser Jorah in his room being tended to by Missandei of Naath. Ser Davos had been successful with Lady Mormont where he and Sansa had failed, Jon hoped that he would be able to repeat that feat, hence his presence.

“That cut on your leg should heal in a few days, and you truly are fortunate that your armor held out otherwise you would have more than a few bruised ribs. Now drink this and go to sleep for a few hours.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It’s bitter.”

Jon made to knock on the door, to alert them of their presence but Ser Davos stayed his hand with a mischievous smile.

“If you intend to behave like a five-year-old, I shall treat you as one. Open your mouth.”

“No.”

Missandei sighed. “How about I fetch some berries, you can have them to get rid of the taste after you drink that.”

“Mm…”

“You really are going to behave like a fussy toddler, aren’t you?”

Ser Davos couldn’t help but laugh at that. He gently pushed open the door and entered, Jon following close behind. They found Ser Jorah sitting on his bed, with his legs stretched out under a blanket in front of him, his woolen tunic was unlaced revealing a wide bandage across his chest. Missandei was standing over him with a goblet in one hand and the other on her hip.

“Sorry for interrupting, we were hoping to speak with Ser Jorah.”

“Ser Jorah cannot speak with you at the moment. He is currently occupied with childish antics.”

In response, Ser Jorah took the goblet and drank it all in one breath while staring at Missandei through the corner of his eye. He handed the goblet to Missandei and smiled cheekily, “I like blueberries.”

This time Missandei joined Ser Davos in laughter, while Jon thought he could see why Jeor Mormont had called his son ‘Sunny’. “I’ll go fetch some.” She said while adjusting the blanket around his legs and then left them alone.

Jon stood awkwardly, looking around the non-descripting room. His sword and armor were kept to the side, and a few books and parchment were lying on the table, but other than that, there were no other belongings in the room.

“Please, have a seat.” Ser Jorah said while lacing up his tunic, but not before Jon caught sight of several scars that started from his neck and disappeared beneath the bandage. A quick look with Ser Davos told him that he had noticed them too.

Once they were seated and polite inquiries regarding his health were exchanged, Ser Davos began.

“I must say Ser Jorah, it is an honor to meet the hero of Pyke. I may be a knight me self, but it’s not for my skill with a sword.”

“No, you’re the Onion Knight, anointed for smuggling supplies across the siege to Storm’s End allowing them to hold on until the Rebellion was won. I was anointed for taking lives, you for saving them. I think it’s clear who the better knight is among us.”

Men usually basked in their praise, and here was this exiled oathbreaker turning it onto another. Perhaps Ser Jorah Mormont was his father’s son after all.

“Your father spoke about you once. At first I wasn’t sure who he was talking about because he called you ‘Sunny’, something to do with you being born in summer, I think?”

Ser Jorah fidgeted with the threads at the blankets edge, then muttered, “A silly little nickname, I’m surprised he even remembered it.”

Jon decided against any more appeals to his vanity and got straight to the point.

“I told you I served under your father at Castle Black. What I didn’t tell you was that I was his steward. He sent me to deal with the Wildling King beyond the Wall, Mance Rayder. Turned out all the wildlings were leaving Hardhome and getting ready to cross the Wall, because things that were once thought gone started waking. I fought them at Hardhome, your father fought them at the Fist of the First Men. We both lost. Now they’re marching south, and we will lose again, if your Queen doesn’t agree to come with us to Winterfell to fight against them. We’ve got the Dragonglass we needed, but we don’t have enough men and need her armies to help us.”

Ser Jorah had sat straighter at the mention of his father, but now he appeared pensieve. He answered at length. “When I was younger, I asked my father why our house words were ‘Here We Stand’. He in turn asked me what the words of the once Kings of Winter, the Starks, were. When I answered, he said something that never made much sense to me. He said, ‘When winter comes, we shall make our stand.’” He looked up and met Jon’s eyes. “I’ve been raised on the same stories as every Northern child. And now you’re telling me that those stories are real. If what you’re saying is true, then the entire Realm is in danger. You’re Ned Stark’s son, bastard or no, I can’t imagine him raising a liar.”

“You believe me?”

“Did my father believe you?”

“A wight tried to kill him in Castle Black.”

He sighed. “I don’t want to, but… yes. I do believe you.”

“So, you’ll convince your Queen to come with us?”

He shook his head, “I am neither her head or her Hand. I cannot make her do anything. What I can do, is talk to her. Don’t expect anything though, she was raised on stories of Aegon the Conqueror and Aemon the Dragon knight, not White Walkers and wights.”

“She’s made it clear that she’ll only give her armies and dragons if I bend the knee.”

“Sounds fair.”

Jon stood up and walked over to the fireplace. He tried to keep his temper in check. When he felt he wouldn’t yell and ruin whatever progress he’s made so far, he spoke, “You’re a Northerner.”

“I am.”

“But you’re not supporting the North’s independence.”

“Mind your tongue lad. You don’t know anything about me. I fought for the North, for your grandfather, your uncle and aunt. The North was in a position to be independent when the Rebellion happened. Your grandfather Lord Rickard had been working for years for it, when the Tourney of Harrenhall was held. Brandon Stark’s marriage to the eldest Tully daughter, sending your father to be fostered at the Eyrie with the heir to the Stormlands, it was all put us in a position to demand independence from Prince Rhaegar when he finally became king. I don’t need to tell you how it all went to hell. But even then, the North could have asked for independence. Your father chose his friendship with Robert Baratheon over the North’s independence. The reason he gave us, was that the rebellion that lasted almost a year and killed half of most families, had depleted our resources such that we couldn’t be independent. We needed the help of the other kingdoms, and the only certain way to get that was to stay a part of the seven kingdoms. As much as I hated to admit it then, he was right. And that was when Winter was over and summer had taken hold.”

Jon felt his shoulders slump. He knew nothing about the present financial or resource situation of the North. Sansa was handling all of that. And while they had the Vale’s support, the Riverlands were practically surrendered to the Lannisters, and the Stormlands had been lost with the Baratheons. He wanted to tell Ser Jorah that the North could sustain itself, but could they? They’d barely had enough men and horses to fight the Boltons and take back Winterfell, hardly enough food to feed them. And thousands had died there too.

Ser Davos cleared his throat forcing Jon to turn around. Ser Jorah seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep.

“As I was saying, you can’t expect her to leave her war with Cersei Lannister to help you with yours when you’re not even considering the idea of helping her in return.”

“You’re asking me to bend the knee.”

“I’m telling you that alliances go both ways. You want her help; you offer help in return. Yara Greyjoy offered her fleet and support for the iron throne in return for the salt throne. You needn’t give up your crown if you can find another way.”

“I don’t have enough men to even hold a candle to her army. And the Northerners won’t fight to put a Targaryen on the Throne, not after the Mad King.”

“Do you honestly think that a woman who made it her mission to free all the slaves in slaver’s bay is anything like the Mad King? She’s not her father. I’ll talk to her, but the rest is up to you.”

By now, he was rubbing his eyes trying to keep awake.

Just then Missandei walked in with a bowl of blueberries.

“You drugged me.” Ser Jorah accused through a yawn.

Seeing him she smiled softly. “One drop of essence of Nightshade, few drops of milk of the poppy and some herbal extracts. Her Grace claimed you wouldn’t rest if I hadn’t.”

Shaking his head, he turned to Jon. “I’ll come find you when I’ve spoken with her.”

“I’ll be in the mines or on the cliffs if not in my chambers.”

* * *

Sansa sat with her head in her hands. The only good thing that had happened today was that Arya had returned, alive and well. Winter was here, and now most of the pack was together. Rickon’s shoulder was recovering nicely and he was making good progress in his reading and writing. He still had a long way to go in his manners though. But living in the wild, on the run for years, well, it was expected that his natural wildness would only be heightened. Bran was behaving more like himself every day, Arya being here would certainly help him. She finished the letter to Jon asking him to return as soon as he could, regardless of the alliance or not.

She handed the sealed parchment to Maester Wolkan to send with a raven and reviewed their coffers. They had enough food to last for a year with the army garrisoned, and more on the way from the Eyrie and other houses in the form of taxes. Their gold was almost depleted. They could last for at most a year and half, assuming the Army only stayed for a year. After that…

She sighed and rubbed her eyes. The Fisheries on the shores and the northern islands would not be able to make up for the deficit in grain under any circumstances and with winter here, the farms in the Eyrie would not be used either. Their only option was to trade timbre and furs with the Reach but last she had heard; Lady Tyrell had been killed by one of her bannermen at Cersei’s behest. The Reach would never trade with them and the Stormlands houses were fighting amongst themselves for control of Storm’s End. The Riverlands were under her Uncle Edmure, who seemed to have bent the knee to Cersei. The Westerlands was not even considered since it belonged to the Lannisters, although she was hearing talk that Casterly Rock was captured by the Dragon Queen.

She had heard what the Mad King had done to her grandfather and uncle, how the Silver Prince had raped her aunt. They all knew.

But as much as Sansa hated to admit it, if they were to have any hope surviving this winter, and every reliable source was saying it would be the worst winter in living memory, they needed an alliance with her. All assuming they survived the ‘Great War’ with the dead that Jon and Bran kept harping on about.

Had she still believed in the Gods; she might have prayed that the Targaryen Queen was not like the men in her family.

“Why do you look so troubled?”

Sansa jumped out of her seat and whirled around to find Arya standing just behind her. Looking at her sister’s impassive face, she couldn’t help but laughing.

“You scared me. You’ve gotten even better at sneaking up on people.”

Arya shrugged, “You still haven’t told me what’s bothering you.”

Sansa sat down. If she couldn’t tell her sister, who could she tell? She revealed everything that had been going on, around them and in her head. Arya’s response was, surprisingly calming.

“I heard about her, on the docks in Braavos. They call her the Breaker of Chains in Essos. She liberated all the slaves of Slaver’s Bay; I think it’s been renamed Dragon’s Bay. There was talk, the captains of slave ships were saying the masters of the three great cities kept offering her ships and gold and even an army so she could sail to Westeros and conquer the Kingdoms, but she kept refusing. She didn’t leave until the slavers truly accepted defeat. The liberated slaves call her _Misa_ or something like that. I think it means ‘mother’. That’s all I know. Well, that and that she has dragons which she rides into battle like Visenya Targaryen.” She added the last part sounding more like the annoying little sister Sansa remembered than this mysterious, list-keeping, whatever had come back from Braavos.

“It could be that she did it for political reasons, to paint herself as good and kind-hearted. People loved Prince Rhaegar as well, but we all know what he did.”

“You shouldn’t name her an enemy without meeting her. Ned Umber’s elder brother was supposed to protect me but instead he gave me over to Ramsay Bolton, but Ned isn’t like him.” Rickon said from the doorway.

“How long have you been listening in?” Sansa asked sternly.

“Not long. C’mon, Bran says he has something to tell you about Littlefinger.”

* * *

“You are the most pragmatic person I have met. How could you believe his claims?”

“I believe it, because my father did. He fought against them, his last command to his men was to reach the Wall and send ravens warning everyone and to ask for more recruits for the Watch.” It was evening now. Jorah had slept away most of the morning and the entire afternoon.

Daenerys turned away from the fireplace to look at him. “Last command?”

Jorah looked away. “He never came back from that Ranging.”

There was silence for a moment. Daenerys took his hands in hers, he was wringing them again, and whispered softly, “I’m sorry.”

He nodded. Daenerys didn’t know what to say. But before she could even try, Jorah surprised her by talking about it himself. “Tyrion told me, after we nearly drowned in Old Valyria. From what I’ve been able to gather, it happened around the time we were in Astapor.”

“I see.” They stood quietly in front of the fire, when Jorah cleared his throat and gestured her to sit. She poured them some wine, fully intending on getting Jorah to finish it.

“Tell Jon to attend our council meeting tomorrow, we’ll discuss it then. Now, tell me about the Northern independence bid. Why does the North want independence?”

He nodded. “The culture in the North is different, most southerners don’t understand it. As such they don’t treat the Northerners with respect and we are a proud people. The people of the North remember the time when the Starks were Kings, fair and just, who ensured everyone survived Winter, no matter how harsh it would be. Everyone believed, and not entirely without reason, that a southern ruler would not be able to care for the North as a Stark would. The last Targaryen king to bother about the North was Aegon the Unlikely.

Lord Rickard was planning for Northern independence and had even set his plans in motion. All the bannermen rallied in secret for it. Most of us, like me, were young men who had just come into their Lordship. All of us loved Lord Rickard. But it all went to hell in a handbasket when... well, when your brother decided to crown Lady Lyanna Stark as his Queen of Love and Beauty at the Tourney of Harrenhall. King Aerys’s suspicions were partially true. The North, the Stormlands, the Riverlands, and the Vale intended to call a Grand Council to have him abdicate in favor of Rhaegar. The tourney was a guise for the gathering.”

“But my brother ruined everything, because he fancied a woman who was not his wife.”

Much to Daenerys’s chagrin, Jorah, had the audacity to laugh at that. “No one would have cared for more than two days had it been a commoner. But it was the only daughter of the Starks. The northern lords didn’t follow Ned Stark for who he was until much later. The rebellion was fought to get back Lady Lyanna and have justice for Brandon and Lord Rickard.”

“So, the North mainly wants independence because they feel the southern rulers don’t respect their culture or care whether they live or die.”

“They also love the Starks.”

“Like you. You love the Starks.” She sounded accusing to her own ears. What did it matter? Jorah had proved time and again that he would always choose her.

Jorah tilted his head to the side, “All the Starks I loved are long dead. The ones left are children trying to do what they think their father might have wanted. But the truth is, Ned Stark was never a leader. Robb Stark didn’t declare himself King, his bannermen did, the same bannermen who were ready to die for Lord Rickard. We had the chance to name Eddard our king during the rebellion, we didn’t.”

He glanced away before adding, “Besides, there is someone else who has my heart now.”

And there it was again. His quiet declaration of love. It had cut her deeply when he had told her in Vaes Dothrak. He was dying of a disease he had contracted because she had sent him away without giving him a chance to explain. Then she had sent him away once again at the advice of someone she had just met, and he still came back to her, _saved her life even._ Then he told her he loved her. She would have watched him die in the fighting pits despite having the power the stop it, and he still loved her.

She didn’t deserve his love. Not when she hardly gave any back.

Desperate to change the subject she began, “You know, Tyrion never did give me a full account of your ‘travels’…”

“By ‘travels’ do you mean a drunken kidnapping, an ambush followed by near drowning and then topped off with capture and imprisonment?” Jorah and Tyrion were the only men who could talk about such a horrendous journey as if they were discussing the weather.

She let out a small laugh then started sipping her wine to cover it. It was the only thing could to stop herself from crying. _Oh, my sweet bear, what did I ever do to deserve you?_

“I see you find it entertaining. Perhaps I should start by telling you of Tyrion’s antics that nearly drove all the slavers to madness. Did you know he sings? Sounded like a horse and seal dying while fucking each other.”

She spit out her wine at him. In his haste to grab a napkin, for her instead of himself mind you, he knocked over the rest of the flask. On to her lap.

_Well, at least he finished the wine._

She glanced up and saw Jorah standing as still as stone in front of her, with the most mortified expression she had ever seen on his face. She couldn’t help it, she burst into laughter. He stared at her in stunned silence before joining her. This lead to a teasing back and forth between them, one that occupied their attention so completely neither noticed anything odd about the raven perched on the window sill.

* * *

Jorah made his way into the mines to speak with Jon. His conversation with Tyrion about inviting Jon and Ser Davos to their council meeting was surprisingly illuminating. Apparently, his father had requested Tyrion to speak to his brother in law and sister about having more men sent to the Watch soon after Ned Stark was named Hand.

Somehow, Jeor Mormont had known that this winter would be the one where all the terrifying stories told to children would come true. That more than anything made Jorah want to fight. Tyrion, much to his shock, agreed that if there was any truth to these claims, they should go and battle them. The only problem was his sister. The moment they left, she would lay claim to the Reach and perhaps even Dragonstone. Once that happened the only thing that would turn the tide in their favor would be mass slaughter of the Lannister forces, which was something neither wanted. There was also no guarantee that Cersei would not march her armies attack them from the behind while they were busy with the dead.

Jorah entered the mines and looked around to see a single man at work near the entrance. The noises told him there were a few more inside. He supposed it hardly made a difference if it was dawn or dusk when one was inside a mountain.

The man saw him, and stilled, staring intently at him. He dropped his tools to come kneel before him. “M’Lord.”

Jorah stepped back and almost dropped his lantern in haste. “Get up good man. I am no lord.”

The man did rise but not before twisting the old knife called shame in Jorah’s heart. “You have always been and will always be my lord.”

A bear islander. He had expected to be spat upon at the very least. But here he stood, receiving the respect he no longer deserved. He shook his head but did not dispute the man.

“I see you no longer recognise me, Ser Mormont.”

Jorah lifted his lantern to better shine the light in the man’s face. His features were familiar… if one were to shave off his beard…

“Cormac?”, he asked with hesitation.

Even beneath the thick beard Jorah could see his smile. They embraced. It was not common for Lords to be close with those beneath their station, but Bear Island had but one highborn family and Cormac was the youngest of their master at arms, a brother he had never had. Cormac held him tightly, as if making sure that he was here. Jorah held him tightly as well, not wanting to let go of this unexpected piece of home he’d found.

Cormac pulled back first and grasped his upper arms instead, giving him a once over.

“I’m honored that you remember me Ser Mormont.”

“The honor is mine. I never expected to be greeted with respect.” He lowered his head in silent apology. “Not after what I did, and how I left.”

Cormac waved his hand. “It matters little to the smallfolk. All everyone knew was that we had a good and kind lord who never let us starve, and remembered the names of even the bastards and orphans. Then one day Ned Stark showed up to claim his head. Your aunt was a good lady, and we loved all her daughters, but it did not stop us from mourning your leaving. My father didn’t eat or sleep for days, even though he knew the truth of what had happened.”

Jorah had no answer to that. Cormac’s father, Garrow had been the master at arms of Bear Island since Jeor’s youth. He had trained Jorah with every weapon possible, in every style he could, encouraged him when he faltered, and stood at his side as his wounds were tended to. He was a second father to him, one who seemed to love him more than his own ever could.

“How are they? My family; Garrow…everyone.”

Cormac sighed. “The War of the Five Kings cost us greatly, Ser Mormont. In the battle of the whispering woods, my father was among the two thousand that went to their deaths against the Lannisters while the Young Wolf faced off and captured the Kingslayer. Father was getting old as it was, he decided that was a good way to die.”

Jorah clasped Cormac’s shoulder. “He was a good man, Cormac. His training has saved my life more times than I can count.” And yet, Jorah was deeply saddened to hear about his death. Almost as much as he had been when he heard about his real father’s. At least Garrow’s death had some honor.

Cormac nodded. He lowered his eyes as he spoke next, “We don’t know what happened to your family though. Ladies Maege, Dacey, and Lyra marched south with the Young Wolf. Never came back, and if ravens with news came, their words were hidden away. We folk believe they all died with him at the twins. Never did receive any bodies. Most of the army had scattered, many died when the Frey men began the slaughter. Two hundred men went and little more than a hundred came back, Darin and I led them. Lady Alysanne, her daughter, and Lady Jorelle went to Deepwood Motte to defend it from Balon’s daughter, they didn’t come back either. The Glovers claimed that they had left for Bear Island after the kraken were driven away. Lost at sea, most likely. Lady Lyanna is the only one left. When I came ‘ere with the White Wolf, she was leaving for Bear Island to get every able-bodied boy, girl, man and woman ready for the war. Maybe she knows what happened to ‘em.”

Jorah couldn’t draw in any air, he could barely hear Cormac’s voice above the bay’s roaring, or maybe it was his blood pounding. The cave was too dark, his lantern must have gone out. The next thing he knew, he was leaning against the flat stone outside the mine entrance. The cool evening air seemed to have no effect on his burning skin. _I should have been there. I should have protected them._ He looked at the sky and saw the full moon, partly hidden by clouds.

_I should have been the one to die._

“She’s just… how old is she? Twelve, I think?” He hated that his voice broke. But he hated himself more. And he wouldn’t blame little Anna if she hated him too. He closed his eyes to stop the tears from falling. _Oh, Lyanna… I’m so sorry._

“Aye. She’s been our lady for almost four years now. That bastard boy you took as your steward when you came into your lordship, -”

“Clancey… he’s called Clancey. You know that. He saved my life thrice. I knighted him after the third.” He lowered his head until his chin touched his chest. _Thank the Gods, at least he’s alive._

“Aye, him. He’s master at arms now along with head of the household guard. Doesn’t let the little Lady out of his sight. He and Maester Philip have been raisin’ her since Lady Alysanne left. Don’t let her leave the Keep much. She’s as fierce as her mother, and those two are making sure she’ll be as good to us as her cousin.”

Only then did Jorah open his eyes and look at his friend. “Cousin? Who me? Those two couldn’t have chosen a worse role model.” He muttered with open disgust.

“They chose someone who everyone remembers fondly. The young admired you and the old loved you. Men and women followed you into war and children slept soundly knowing their lord would take care of ‘em. I told you, we loved Lady Maege and her daughters, but many folks think their sons and fathers wouldn’t ‘ave died if you had led them.”

He pushed away from the wall and stood straight with anger. At whom, he could not tell. “That’s absurd! The Red Wedding was a _slaughter_ , I couldn’t have done anything for them.”

“You led ‘em before into victory. Twice.”

“Ned Stark and Robert Baratheon led them into victory. Against the Mad King _and_ Greyjoy.”

“I remember taking commands from you. Neither of ‘em cared whether I lived or died. You did.”

* * *

Back in the Winterfell Godswood, the three-eyed raven, or Bran Stark, as they were so intimately intertwined that there was no telling them apart, came back to his own crippled body.

He had been spending much of his time either going backwards in time and watching what his siblings were doing or warging into ravens to track the Night King’s progress. Perhaps, it was time to expand his viewing and see everything that had happened in Westeros since the Rebellion. And for the sake of his family, it would also do him good to discover all he could about the Dragon Queen and her Northern Knight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little elaboration on why the North wants independence- mostly taken from the implications in the books. 
> 
> As for Cormac- he sort of just showed up and knelt at Jorah's feet, so I let him be.


	4. Dancing with Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beyond the Wall... the Suicide Squad of the most unlikely seven ragtag group of men. 
> 
> Jon Snow, King of the North  
> Tormund Giantsbane, the Wildling King  
> Ser Jorah Mormont, the Exiled Knight  
> Thoros of Myr, the Red Wizard  
> Beric Dondarion, the Lightning Lord  
> Sandor Clegane, the Hound  
> Gendry Waters, the Usurper's Heir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Repeat after me-  
> Benjen Stark deserved better.  
> Rickon Stark deserved better.  
> Meera Reed deserved better.  
> Thoros of Myr deserved better.  
> Lyanna Mormont is amazing.

The preparations for war were going well. Or so Ser Clancey informed her. All she understood was that of the three hundred and forty-six that remained of her almost five hundred people, two hundred and eighteen would be marching to Winterfell on the morrow. Those who were remaining behind consisted entirely of boys and girls either too little to even hope to fight, and those too old or permanently injured to join them.

She understood something else too. She understood that she needed to get away and have some time to herself before she yelled, unreasonably, at more people. Half a dozen in one morning were more than enough. She also wanted to be alone with her own thoughts instead of enduring another lecture from Maester Philip about her temper.

With the intention of avoiding said Maester, Lyanna Mormont made her way into the Keep from the service entrance at the edge of the training yard. From there she started towards her chambers. The Lord’s chambers. When she became lady at the age of seven and a half, Maester Philip had insisted she move into her mother’s rooms. But she couldn’t. Not into her mother’s rooms, or any belonging to her sisters either. She wanted to stay in her own, but they were at the backside of the keep, and rather far from the escape tunnel leading from the antechamber of the main hall down to the sea caves. So, for purely security reasons, she chose to take the rooms that had been unoccupied since she could remember. The Lords’ Chamber.

She opened the door, and looked inside. It was too spacious for her comfort. But a ladies comfort came last to her duty. It was a room her mother had closed off after her cousin had left. But sentimental gestures were an impediment to the pursuit of reason, which was a necessity to being a good leader.

She stepped back into the corridor and shut the door. Even here, alone, her own thoughts were being shadowed by Maester Philip’s guidance.

She didn’t bear a grudge to him for it though. His guidance and Clancey’s protection were the only things keeping her head above the water since the War of the Five Kings. For that, she would always be grateful to them, not to mention they were as close as family, and she admired and respected both immensely.

It was just that sometimes, she felt suffocated in her life. She wandered down the hall aimlessly. Soon, she found herself at the staircase leading up to the storage loft. When their mother and sisters did not return from the Red Wedding, Ally had their belongings stored up there. She remembered Clancey having the same done when she did not return from Deepwood Motte.

Lyanna climbed the stairs.

Inside the loft, she found several trunks and crates covered by dusty old sheets. It was rather full. She wandered down among the rows and piles, not touching any of them.

 _Why did I come up here?_ She asked herself. Maester Philip said that it was important that before doing anything, she must know why she was doing it. The same went for decisions.

 _Why did I come up here?_ She wanted to be alone with her thoughts for a time.

 _Why did I want to be alone?_ She wanted to be alone because…

She couldn’t answer herself. She stopped in front of a trunk she knew was her mother’s. She made to open it, but her fingers shook when she unlatched it. She almost lifted the lid, but something held her back, her arms were frozen and she was suddenly aware of the cold in the room up here. 

_Why can’t I open it?_ She stepped away from the trunk and looked around the room. She took slow deep breaths to calm her racing pulse. _One, two, three,.. hold till seven then let go. Repeat as many times as you need to little lady,_ she heard Clancey’s voice.

She opened her eyes and looked around again. Light was filtering in from the slanted window in the roof and catching at all the dust in the air. It had a soft beauty to it.

She went back to her mother’s trunk but instead of lifting the lid, latched it back again.

_I wanted to be alone because I miss them. I came up here because this is where their ghosts are._

They had no graves and so these dusty chests, trunks and crates were all that remained of them. And they would always haunt her. She was so angry at them for leaving her alone. For promising that they would return. Lyanna wondered if that anger would ever leave her. She didn’t want to be angry at them. She loved them, but… _but what?_ She loved them, and it was wrong of her to be angry at them for dying. And yet she was.

She shook her head and went to stand near the window to see the view from up here. She never did see the view. Her eye was caught by something.

A crate was lying with its cover half open, and a sheet carelessly thrown over it. As if someone had opened it, but then hastily covered it again. She drew aside the sheet fully, coughing a bit at the dust that rose in greeting and removed the lid. Inside, she found carvings.

Small carvings of fishes, shadow cats, owls, ships and weapons. And many more. She knelt before the crate and started taking them out one by one. Most were old and crude, others were unpolished and rough. Some were smooth and beautiful. She found one such, at the bottom, of a meadow with several bears, of varying sizes and shapes resting with each other. It seemed familiar, she felt she had seen it before. The stout, observing she-bear in the center was her mother, and the lean one sitting happily beside her was Dacey. Each bear represented one of her family, in poses that matched their disposition. A growling one standing protectively over a cub for Ally and her daughter, two young ones playfully fighting for Lyra and Jory, and the smallest cub, curled up in sleep near her mother being herself.

She ran a finger over it, hearing a gravelly voice in her head, _“That one is you little Anna…”_ Yes, she recalled now. Her cousin, who’d left shortly before her third name day had made this. She could see it, in her mind’s eye, a memory she didn’t know she had, of a large hand gently holding her much smaller one and guiding her in whittling the wood with a thin knife.

“I see you’ve located buried treasure, My Lady.”

She stood abruptly, taking the carving in her left hand and moving it behind it her back while pulling out her dagger with her right hand and shifting her body to a fighter’s stance, the dagger pointed straight at the direction the voice came in.

Maester Philip stood placidly with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing fondly at her with a small smile. He was dressed as he usually was, in simple wool trousers and a leather jerkin. Coupled with his great height and broad shoulders, no one could tell he was a maester by looking at him.

“Had Clancey been present with us, he would have revealed to you, that by now you would have been dead. You did not notice my presence up until I spoke.” He took slow deliberate steps towards her. “You must always be aware of your surroundings.”

She lowered her dagger and relaxed her stance. She did not however, deign to respond to his chiding. He had served the Mormonts for fifty years now, advising her uncle Jeor, her cousin, her mother, and now finally her.

Maester Philip, a lumberjack’s son who was clever enough to be chosen by the then Maester of Bear Island as an apprentice. As such, at eighteen, after being taught everything by the previous maester who was by then too old to work, he’d been sent to the citadel to formally become one and had returned in little over two years, one of the shortest times someone had spent there.

He came and sat atop a crate, uncaring of the dust. He only wore the robes and chain when they had guests or on formal occasions. He described them as coarse sacks specially designed to hinder free movement and the chain as a burden meant only to bend his back if not break his neck with its weight, claiming both items to be in direct contradiction to the liberty granted by knowledge and reason. Like most of the residents of their little Island, he too was considered an oddity.

He gently took the carving from her hands, as she lowered herself to the floor near him. “Your cousin made this for your mother’s nameday. She was most displeased by this rendering of the family.”

“Why?” It was lovely. It captured their family perfectly.

“It was meant to show her with her children and grandchild. But he forgot to add one of them.”

She looked at it again. Everyone was accounted for. Except her nephew, but he hadn’t been born then. Did she have an unknown sibling?

“Jorah did not include her son. Himself.”

She looked up at Maester Philip but he was rummaging through the pile that she had pulled out of the trunk.

“Jorah was uncle Jeor’s son.”

“He _is_.” He stressed on the ‘is’. A reminder that until they knew for certain that he was dead, they were to assume he was alive.

“But he was your mother’s as well, for she loved him as such.” He found what he was looking for. An unpolished carving of a bear, walking sedately, with his nose in the air. “He started working on this, to add to it, but was unable to finish it. All it needs is a polish, but your mother decided that he would finish it when he returned home. She locked all his tools and carvings in that crate for him.”

“He’s not coming back.” She said as she took the bear in her hand, and tried to remember what Jorah had looked like. Large hands, scratchy beard, and… tall? Everyone was tall to her.

“Why do you say that?”

“We received a copy of his Royal Pardon years ago. If he had to return, he would have come back by now. He has to be dead. Why else would he never return?”

“You know that there could be various reasons.” Of course, there could be. There were always many things to be considered with Maester Philip.

She turned away from him and started pulling out two cases, one small and one large from the bottom of the crate.

“Yes, I’m aware of your belief that he has found something that keeps him in Essos.” She hated that reasoning. The idea that he had the means to return, but had chosen not to, was… unwelcome.

The large case contained various tools needed for sculpting wood, from sandpaper to long and small blades of varying thickness and lengths. The kit was old and worn but clearly well cared for. She closed it, setting it aside and made to open to smaller one but Maester Philip took it out of her hand forcing her to turn her attention to him.

“And I am aware that you would rather believe him to be dead rather than hope that he has made another life for himself across the sea. I must ask, why?”

She looked down to his shoes but he grasped her chin. Apparently it was one of those days when she was forced to look something she’d rather avoid, in the eye.

She put up a token struggle against his grip. “It’s just… everyone told me that he loved the family… but he left. And he hasn’t come back yet. And if he could come back, but didn’t… because he didn’t want to return…” she couldn’t put into words what she felt about it. She had found plenty of words to tell off people, even the man she now called King, but when it came to family and feelings, words remained just out of her reach.

Maester Philip sighed and let go of her chin. He set aside the small case and took both her hands in his. She hadn’t realized how cold her own were until he engulfed them in his much larger ones.

“I pulled Jorah out of his mother, just as I pulled out you and all your sisters. I taught him, and watched him grow as I do now for you. I understand you bear cubs far more than you realize. I know, what you fear. You think that if he’s chosen to not return so far, then it means he no longer loves his home and family. But let me tell you, that’s not true. Even if he does love something or someone else, it does not lessen his love for you in any way.”

“How do you know that?”

Maester Philip smiled at her. “Because his heart has never been so small that he would need to toss out you and the rest of the house to make space for someone else.”

“The rest of the house is dead.” Wonderful, she sounded like a petulant child.

“We do not know for certain. The raven we got from Lyra was sent after the Red Wedding. If she survived that, perhaps someone else did too.”

“Then why haven’t they returned? Why stay away?”

 _Why leave me alone?_ She wanted to ask. But she wouldn’t. She was a Mormont, and she was brave, she would not admit to any weakness. No matter how much she missed them. Her mother who told her stories, about heroes and great battles, Dacey, who loved to dance, and Ally who was the only one other than mother who scolded her. Lyra and Jorelle who were always arguing but always adjusted their games for her, her niece Ellen who was older than she was but treated her with respect, and her little nephew, who was the first living son born in forty years to their house. She even missed her cousin, Jorah, who lived in everyone’s memories and came to her in their stories, but remained a man shrouded in mist, occasionally letting her glimpse a hand or a hear a few words. 

“My Lady, the worlds of men are built, and thrive only on hope. Have faith, when the time is right, they will find their way to where they are meant to be.” He handed her the smaller case. “When Jorah prepared to march south in rebellion against the Mad King, he gifted Dacey a Morningstar, and Alysanne a battle-axe. A weapon that suited them, a substitute for himself, should he not return alive. He said, ‘in these weapons, I leave a part of myself to protect you’. Lyra’s long sword, Ellen’s chained mace and Jorelle’s bow were also from him, given much later. He kept this aside for you shortly after your second nameday. It is time you have it.”

She opened the plain looking box. Inside, lay a folding blade. The handle was carved in patterns reminiscent of the waves that crashed against their island’s shores. She flipped it open, the gleaming blade came out smoothly. Opened like this, it went from her elbow to the tips of fingers in length. It was a beautiful hunting knife, one that fit her hand well enough now and would still fit when she grew taller.

“He carved the handle himself,” Lyanna whispered, because she remembered. She could see him, sitting in a high-backed chair, humming a tune, his hair and beard catching in the sunlight streaming in from the window behind him while he carved out the handle, “I saw him.” She could still see him, turning to face her, smiling. For the first time, in her memories, Jorah’s face was finally clear.

* * *

When Tormund said that he could finally breathe beyond the Wall, Jon found himself agreeing. There was a certain freedom here, away from the politics and scheming of the houses, away from oaths of honor and duty, of the grime of battle… he could truly understand why Mance Rayder had been tempted to break his vows and join the Free Folk. Over here, it didn’t matter that he was a bastard or King. Here, he was just Jon Snow. He felt quite happy at that thought.

Until he realized that somehow, Ser Jorah Mormont had ended up next to him while Tormund marched ahead with the Hound.

Surprisingly, Ser Jorah spoke first.

“Do you know how she is?”

“I’m sorry, but who?”

“Lyanna.” He clarified, “Lady Mormont. She is my kin, you know.”

“Oh, yes, I know that. She’s… uh... do you want me to be honest?”

Ser Jorah looked worried, “Tell me the truth.”

“She scares me. A very fierce girl, she makes your father look like a harmless pup.”

Ser Jorah let out a small laugh, clearly relieved. “A proper Mormont. She was severe even in the cradle. We’re not just called bears for our sigil.”

They talked some more, about which other Lords remained, the battle of the bastards, then his going into exile, Ser Jorah freely admitted that he made a terrible decision which he would always regret, Jon let him know that he was glad he hadn’t been executed by Ned, and he found that he meant it. Regardless of what Ser Jorah had done, he was still a Northerner, a Mormont at that. In not only getting his Queen to agree but to be the first one to volunteer, he’d proven that. He let him know that the Old Bear had been avenged. Then, he did what he knew he should have done earlier. He unstrapped Longclaw and handed it to its rightful heir. The Mormont’s family sword belonged in the hands of a Mormont.

But then Ser Jorah did something that made whatever respect Jon had begun developing for him increase a thousand-fold. He refused to take it, and let him know that he could keep it not just for himself, but for any children he might have. And he did it with a smile, with no hint of jealousy or bitterness.

Two hours later, they were attacked by an undead winter bear. Larger than regular ones, and twice as fierce when alive. They lost two men, one of them being Cormac, the Bear Islander Lady Mormont had sent with him. He pushed aside Ser Jorah, and got himself mauled to death while the knight struggled back to his feet and stabbed it in the neck with dragonglass. It was when Ser Jorah knelt beside the dying man and said ‘Farewell my brother’, did Jon realize that Cormac was not just one of the former Lord’s subjects, but someone who had known him personally.

Ser Jorah remained quiet afterwards, and out of respect, everyone let him be. Except Thoros of Myr. The Red Priest thought it was a good idea to keep an around his shoulders and keep talking in his ear. He almost attempted a rescue, but Beric Dondarrion stopped him, saying that they were old friends, and if needed, Ser Jorah was capable of flipping over Thoros himself.

Soon after, they found a small ranging party of a few dozen Wights and one walker heading into a small valley. They fought, but were close to being overpowered, when a lone rider appeared seemingly out of nowhere and swinging a flaming chained ball and killed the White Walker. He dismounted from his horse and came towards Jon. Jon took a few steps back and raised his sword, out of the corner of his eye he saw the Hound and Ser Jorah capture one wight who hadn’t been destroyed, while the rest kept their weapon trained on their mysterious savior.

The man pushed back his hood and lowered his scarf, revealing his face. “Put down that sword boy.”

He did. He also threw his arms around the man’s neck and hugged him, uncaring about who witnessed.

“Uncle Benjen!”

* * *

Secrets, lies, rumors, more secrets, the truth which was worse than any lie or rumor had ever been.

Bran came back to his own broken body. He was in the Godswood, facing the Wierwood, with the stream at his back. No one disturbed him here. He was breathing heavily, feeling as if he was drowning but then had broken the water’s surface and found air.

“Are you alright Bran?”

He looked around to see who had spoken. His little brother, Rickon. He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. Looking at Rickon, so much grown since they had last met, he felt more like himself than he had since that day he truly become the three-eyed raven. He could remember so many things now, but here, now, with his baby brother, who was not so young anymore, he remembered being Bran Stark.

Bran extended his hand towards Rickon, who grasped his fingers in his own. “Do not worry. I am fine.”

“Jojen used to start shaking sometimes, because of the visions.” Ah, so that’s where Rickon’s worry came from.

He smiled, a very small smile, but more than what anyone had seen on his face since his return. “Do not worry. I can control when and what I see. If I get tired, I come back to myself.”

Rickon nodded, letting go of his hand. Bran sat silently watching him pick up his spear and twirl it. Osha had used a makeshift spear as a weapon. There was no doubt that it was in her honor that he had chosen to fight with a spear rather than a sword.

“It would be more practical to train with a sword. You can still learn to use a spear, but swords are better for battle.”

Rickon turned to him with steel in his eyes. His brother had grown far more than anyone realized. “Osha is the only reason I survived on the run. We were lost on the way to Last Hearth. She kept me safe, carried and at times dragged me away from danger and took care of me because I couldn’t do it myself. She died for me Bran; I will fight only with a spear.”

Meera had done the same for him. And what had he said to her? _thank you._ No. It hadn’t been Bran who said that. Those words came from the three-eyed raven, the memory of the world.

She deserved more than that. She deserved more than him. More than his need to fight and protect his family, more than his desire to climb trees and castle walls, he wanted to not be a cripple for her. To be able to walk towards her, to be able to hold her…

He shook his head. _She will never want me. Nor after how dismissive I let myself be._

“How’s Meera?” Bran narrowed his eyes at Rickon. Shouldn’t he be the one to know everything?

“I don’t know. She was not very happy with me when she left to return to Greywater Watch.” Hardly surprising. How he wished he could go back and say something more, much more than a simple thank you.

Rickon sat down at the edge of the stream. “Can’t you just see?”

He could. But for the sake of her privacy, he felt that he shouldn’t. Why not though? He had been watching his own family, might as well watch her. 

He warged into ravens, going from Winterfell to Greywater Watch. Soon, he came to the marshes. There was tension in the air, he could sense it. Was Howland Reed preparing to answer the call for arms? The raven flew, from room to room, trying to find the Lord and his daughter. He did find them eventually, in a wide roofless veranda. He found them with several others, there was a meeting of sorts going on. He hopped onto a lower branch to see everyone’s faces better. And when he saw who all were in attendance, it was so shocking, that the sheer surprise violently knocked him out of the raven’s body and into his own.

His gasp for air alerted Rickon who was at his side in an instant. “Bran! Bran, it’s alright. You’re home. It’s alright.” He nodded, still trying to calm himself and reviewing what he had just witnessed. He needed to confirm what he had seen. He had to go backwards in time and see where all these lives intertwined and came together in Greywater Watch.

“What did you see? Are they okay?”

“They are okay, Rickon. For now. But when the truth comes out, I can’t say what the other Lords and Ladies will do to them.” For if it was as he suspected, then the Lord of the Marshes had hidden far too many secrets from the rest of the North.

* * *

“That boy, Gendry, do you know he’s Robert Baratheon’s bastard, Jon?”

Silence. Jorah had known who Gendry was since the night before they had left Dragonstone. Anyone who had seen Robert closely during the rebellion would have known. Varys was surprised that he’d survived Joffrey’s murder spree, and Tyrion was mortified that he hadn’t recognized Robert’s face staring out at him. They had decided that Jorah would keep an eye on him and see what he wanted, before they informed their Queen. He glanced to his side to see the King in the North.

Jon swallowed, and replied in a strained voice, “I did not know that.”

Jorah didn’t even bother calling him out on his lie, he just calmly sat back and watched Benjen deck him a good one.

He would let the queen know, but he would also make sure she understood that neither Jon nor Gendry meant her any harm. From what Jorah had been able to gather, Gendry couldn’t give a shit about who sat on the throne or what his parentage was.

“Hey! That’s not fair.” Jon pointed an accusatory finger at Jorah. “You never said anything about being fostered at Winterfell with my aunt and uncle.”

No, he hadn’t. He didn’t say anything, because it no longer mattered. When he’d lived in Winterfell, Brandon was being fostered at Barrowtown and Ned Stark had been with Jon Arryn. The ones he’d been with, Lord Rickard and Lady Lyanna Stark were long dead. And Benjen was halfway there. He hadn’t been lying when he told his queen that all the Starks he’d loved were gone.

“Would you dumb cunts stop your yapping for a while!” Clearly, the Hound had even less patience than his reputation suggested.

“Listen up mate, it’s been fucking years since I’ve had a conversation with someone other than my horse. You got a problem, stuff your ears with cloth.” Benjen called back, much to Thoros’ amusement.

It’s not as if they had anything better to do. At the moment they were stranded on a small island in the middle of a frozen lake with Wights and Walkers surrounding them in every direction. Gendry was their only hope, well, going after the Walkers was one option, but they needed the wight they’d captured alive… or not dead… whatever.

Although truthfully, Jorah himself was not in a mood to talk. Not after what Cormac had done. _Bloody idiot._ There was so much he had wanted to say to him, but there wasn’t enough time. He was hurting, so Jorah just took his hand and called him brother. After their first bear hunt, which ended with Cormac climbing a tree while Jorah stabbed the animal through the eye, Garrow had said that some day a bear would kill his younger boy. He turned out to be right.

To lose one brother, then be reunited with another, only to find he was cursed with some sort of half-life was just one of the ways that fate liked to screw him over. After calming his nephew, Benjen had finally looked around to the rest of the group, recognizing him immediately. He’d been greeted with a punch to the jaw, followed by a smile.

“You’ve been in the sun too long Jorah.”

“Says the man who’s been eating snow for years.”

Benjen and Jon laughed. Jorah wished he could bring himself to smile. 

“Alright, enough jokes. Now both of you, listen to me.” He pointed to Jon, “You’re a king. You need to make good decisions. Not just honorable ones like your father did, but military decisions like Robert made to win the Rebellion. Do whatever it takes to win.” He turned to Jorah, “And you. My father didn’t favor you for your house. He did it because he believed you had the makings of a capable military commander. I’ve been watching the Night King for years. He’s going to breach the wall sooner or later. It won’t hold him.” He glanced back and forth between them. “You people need to be ready.”

“He’s right.” Beric said while joining them. Thoros dropped himself next to Jorah and handed him the flask of wine. Jorah drank some.

“Death is the enemy. And we living need to set aside our quarrels and fight it.”

Soon after, Clegane and Giantsbane joined them. It went on like this for the rest of the evening then most of the next morning. Jorah listened intently to the firsthand experience Benjen gave them. He truly was the best ranger of the Watch. All seven of them sat in a circle and talked about the army of the dead, trading legends and stories passed down for generations while trying to keep warm.

Until high noon, when Clegane threw a stone and prompted the dead to come after them again.

* * *

Daenerys implored Drogon to fly faster. Her children understood her urgency and pushed themselves to hurry.

The group had been half days’ walk away from the wall, when Gendry separated from them. The raven he sent had reached Dragonstone in the early hours of dawn. She had left within the hour. She looked up to see the sun directly overhead. It was high noon, and she could finally see the Wall.

_Almost there._

* * *

Benjen knew this would be the moment he died. And what a death it was.

He was so proud of Jon. He even got to meet Jorah again. It was a shame the Old Bear had been killed, seeing his son again would have brought some life back into him. 

And after months spent tracking these frozen monsters, he saw something wondrous in this frozen wasteland. Dragons.

But then those vile creatures had to ruin it by killing one of those glorious beasts. He tried to send Jon away to the dragon but he wouldn’t leave without him. But Benjen couldn’t cross the Wall. He was destined to die on this side of the world. When Jon went under for a moment, just after the golden dragon’s death, Benjen struggled to pull him out. Suddenly, he heard the Targaryen rider call out for Jorah, who appeared at his side, ready to drag his foolish nephew away to safety.

“Benjen, come on!”

Benjen swung his flaming mace. “I can’t cross the Wall. Take him and go!”

He turned away and heard Jon calling out to him, while Jorah tried to tell him he couldn’t save him. Jon was soaked in ice water, and Jorah had the advantage of height.

Benjen did his best to hold off the dead until they were on the dragon’s back.

 _Thank the Gods, Jon is safe._ He had seen the way the Night King looked at his bastard nephew. The King in the North was the one who would bring his end.

The last thing Benjen saw before he was ripped apart was two men falling from the black dragon when it dodged the frozen spear, only to have the green one fly under and catch them on it’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love House Mormont. Lyanna Mormont is the most badass motherfucker you will ever meet. But, she is also a twelve year old, and deserves to act her age once in a while.
> 
> My reason for saving Thoros of Myr is this: Seven men went beyond the wall, there are seven Gods, and seven Kingdoms. Therefore, the Laws of Symbolism state that all seven must survive and reunite at a later date.  
> ps. I apologize for killing off Cormac. Please accept Maester Philip in exchange.


	5. Dealings with Devils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While there is a Ceasefire negotiation happening in King's Landing, Winterfell takes care of their enemies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little twist on the negotiations in King's Landing, some more drama, with a dash of budding romance and grief.

She was here. And she was beautiful. Fierce, strong, proud, but so very gentle when she wanted to be.

Rickon stood at a distance watching Lady Lyanna Mormont as she gave commands to her men telling them where to put the grain and where to set up their camps. On her right, a step behind her stood her guard, Ser Clancey, with his two-handed poleaxe strapped to his back.

When there came a lull in her never-ending barking of orders, he took his chance and approached.

“Welcome to Winterfell, my Lady.” He greeted her with a small bow, just the right angle as Sansa had taught him.

Lyanna Mormont curtsied to him with a small smile. “Thank you for your hospitality, Prince Rickon.”

Prince Rickon. While Jon had been named King, before Bran had returned, Rickon, as the last trueborn Stark son was named heir. He had the title of Prince now. Yet, he did not want to hear that title from her. Anyone but her. He couldn’t describe it, but she was special.

He’d known that when he’d opened his eyes and seen her. Ramsay had him starved and locked in darkness for days when he told him to run to his brother. But finding a strength borne out of desperation to finally be with his family, he ran faster than he ever had. The arrows falling all around him, he ran to Jon as his bastard half-brother rode towards him. They almost met when one arrow found it’s mark in his back, lodging at his shoulder blade. He couldn’t remember Jon throwing him over his horse and dragging him off the battlefield, all he could remember was the sharp sting he felt when it was yanked out followed out by the searing pain of the hot blade pressed to him to stop the bleeding.

He remembered coming back to his senses to see her face as she wiped his sweaty brow, and whispered to him, with a gentle tone that no one who had seen her scold Lords Glover and Manderly, would believe she was capable of.

_It’s alright, you’re safe now. The Knights of the Vale are here, your brother and sister have won back Winterfell. It’s over. You’re home now._

“Please, my Lady, just call me Rickon.”

The smile left her face and he felt a pang in his heart at its departure. “I cannot.”

Rickon took a step closer, he noticed her guard step away slightly to give them privacy, while also moving a hand to his axe, as vigilant as ever. Rickon was taller of the two, but she was intimidating enough as it was. “I consider us friends. Should friends not be allowed the liberty to do away with titles when alone?” She was more than a friend to him. She was the person he wanted to see when he woke up every morning.

Lady Mormont inclined her head, glancing at him with deep brown eyes that stood out on her fair skin. She was named after his father’s sister, who was considered a great beauty. To his eyes, the Lyanna before him was greater than his aunt could have ever been. 

“Very well. When outside of court, we shall use each other’s given names.”

He smiled and nodded to her. “Lyanna.”

She smiled as well. “Rickon.”

* * *

Jorah sat with his back straight, trying to keep his attention away from pain. He would have preferred that Missandei wrapped his broken ribs, but she was on Dragonstone. His next preference in the entire group would have been Thoros because they had known each other for a long time. But Thoros and Beric Dondarrion had chosen to stay on the Wall with Giantsbane. In the end, when they’d gotten on the boat, and Ser Davos had dragged away Jon Snow to warm him up, he’d been left with Theon Greyjoy. To his credit, the boy had taken one look at the horrible greyscale scars across his torso, and given him a pat on his shoulder, that Jorah could only take to mean respect.

“I remember you, Ser. You were among the few Lords who came to Winterfell and did not spit on the Greyjoy prisoner.”

Jorah grunted, as he finished wrapping the bandages. Jorah had been sure he and Jon would die when they fell off Drogon. But Rhaegal had swooped down, catching them on his wing, his leathery hide cushioning their fall, and then twisted slightly to roll onto his back. It had been an intelligent move and kept them from being impaled on the spikes of his back. While Jon had grabbed the frills on his neck, much the same way Daenerys held onto Drogon, Jorah had settled himself just behind him grabbing some scales to keep himself and the young king steady.

Theon was done, and began to pull away his hands after rubbing over the bandages to check they were secure. Jorah grabbed one of his wrists.

He examined the cuts, the brutalized fingernails and the missing finger. The result of brutal torture. “Who did this to you?”

Theon avoided his eyes, and he could feel a small tremor emerging in his hand. He swallowed before answering. “Ramsay Bolton. He’s dead now. And I deserved it, for betraying the family that raised me.”

“No one deserves to be a Bolton’s prisoner.” Everyone in the North was leery of that house. He added lightly, “Except, maybe your Uncle Euron.” He was heartened to see a small smile on the boy’s face.

Theon had sailed them to Eastwatch. He was the one who had come to his aid when four Ironborn had surrounded him below decks on the way, giving the threat of dragons making meals out of the men to get them to back off from Jorah. Though Jorah mistrusted all Ironborn on a matter of principal, he couldn’t bring himself to extend that to Theon. The boy had been torn away from his home and family, and raised among hostile Northerners. Perhaps, it was this forced exile that softened Jorah to him. Also, Theon was surprisingly genuine. He wasn’t as uncouth as them, nor did he seem to obsess over ‘paying the iron price’.

The fact that he hated Euron for capturing his sister and wanted to get her back at all costs only served to make Jorah more sympathetic towards him.

“Euron’s a piece of work. I hope Yara is alright.” Jorah understood that Theon was looking for some reassurance from someone who’d actually gone off against the mad son of a bitch more than once.

“Euron is not one for fast kills, he likes to prolong pain. He’ll keep her alive, but the sooner she gets away from him, the better.”

Theon nodded, and started helping him put on his shirt and jerkin.

There was a knock on the door, Theon opened it and greeted, “Your Grace.”

Jorah kept his gaze on the floor in front of him, while they quietly exchanged some words, silently berating himself for focusing more on the sting he felt when she ignored him in favor of the young king who’d almost drowned. She’d lost one of her children, he of all people should be sympathetic to her.

It didn’t help that she’d just spent the better part of an hour with Jon. He wasn’t blind. He could see the looks they’d shared. Theon left them alone and Daenerys softly closed the door behind him.

“Ser Jorah?”

All his thoughts faded away as he heard her voice sound more like the scared little girl he knew in the Dothraki sea. He took a deep breath and lifted his face to hers. “I’m sorry.” Tears filled her eyes, and she made to shake to her head. He stood, and almost reached for her hand, stopping himself just in time. “I’m sorry.” He repeated, “I’m so sorry.”

She covered her mouth with her hand, muffling her sobs before they even came out.

His heart broke for her. “You don’t have to hide your grief in front of me. You have every right to mourn. Please, khaleesi, let me be your strength for now.”

Perhaps it was the gentle reminder of their time in the Red Waste, that finally broke her. She warped her arms around his neck as he stifled a groan at the unexpected jolt to his ribs. He held her close, letting her bury her face in his shoulder. No words were exchanged as she wept, there was never any need for words between them, not when a glance was enough. He didn’t try to shush her, knowing that this might be the only chance she had to freely cry for her child, he just stroked her hair, letting her know that he was here, sharing her pain.

Eventually, he got her to sit down on the bed, while he sat next to her, one arm still around her small shoulders, while the other wrapped around the one clutching his tunic for dear life. It was some time till her weeping died down to hiccupping breaths. He leaned over and poured a goblet of water, which she sipped slowly.

He expected her to talk about Viserion, but she, like always, determined to hide away any weakness, turned it on him.

“Jon said something about your brother dying. I thought you were an only child and all your cousins were girls?”

He sighed. “That’s true. Cormac was the son of our master at arms. We grew up together as brothers. He,” he paused, remembering, “sacrificed himself for me.”

“And Jon’s uncle? You never said anything about growing up in Winterfell.”

Jorah rubbed his hand up and down her arm. “Aye, from my thirteenth nameday to my sixteenth Lord Rickard fostered me. Only Lady Lyanna and Benjen lived there at the time. They’re all dead now. Even so, Benjen took the Black soon after the Rebellion. He wanted nothing to do with matters of the realm, so he hardly counted. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you; I didn’t think it mattered anymore.”

She took his hand in hers. “It’s alright. I’m sorry you had to watch them die. And I’m sorry about your kinswoman as well.”

How did she know? The next morning, before the council meeting, she had asked if he’d slept, but he was fairly certain that he had escaped the conversation with his reasons hidden.

She rested her head on his shoulder, leaning against him. “Ser Davos mentioned that your house’s lady was very brave for someone so young. I remember what you told about your aunt and cousins… most of them would be off age by now, except for the youngest.”

He’d spoken about his family once or twice, while they were wandering the Red Waste and he was trying to keep their sanity intact. He hadn’t expected her to remember. He hadn’t even thought she was listening. He nodded mutely to her words of sympathy.

“I’ve pledged my support and armies to Jon.”

Ah, so that’s what they had been discussing for better part of an hour. “I’d be very disappointed in you if you hadn’t.”

She gave him a minute smile and playfully hit her fist against his chest. Unfortunately, Jorah was still very tender, and he couldn’t help but groan and curl on himself a little.

She gasped, “You’re hurt!”

“That is a very astute observation, Khaleesi.” He smiled trying to make light of the situation.

“Indeed.” Sarcasm coated the word. She was not amused.

She got up and told him to lie down. Every protest he could think of died in his throat when she gently grabbed his shoulders to push him down. He could only watch her, as she tended to him, pulling back the furs and then wrapping him in them. She spent a significant amount of time fussing, asking him questions such as when he had last eaten, or slept. He understood what she was trying to do.

“Would my Queen like to share her thoughts?”

She stopped fussing and sat down near his pillow. She brushed back some strands from his forehead, taking one hand in her own. It was endearing, how tiny hers was compared to his.

She sighed. “Ser Jorah?”

“Hmm?”

“What are we going to do?”

He took a deep breath, squeezing her hand. “We will do what we have always done. We grieve tonight, and come morning, we face the world, ready to fight with everything we’ve got.”

* * *

At the Dragonpit, Daenerys watched as everything started to fall apart. Cersei and Ser Jaime had just gotten Euron to back down from insulting Tyrion and taunting Theon, when he recognized Jorah.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t fucking Lord Mormont. Ser Bear of a frozen island, knighted by a drunken whoremonger for slaughtering my kin. Heard you won yourself a pretty wife too. Where is she now?”

Ser Jorah, to his credit did not respond to the question. But the look of fury she saw on his face was proof enough that he wouldn’t stay quiet much longer.

“We don’t have the time or patience for cock measuring, Euron. Come sit down.” As much as she hated her, Daenerys appreciated Cersei trying to rein him in.

Euron Greyjoy took a step forward towards Jorah and said while leaning down to his level, “When all this is over, I swear to you, I’ll take your silver haired wench the same way my father took the bitch who birthed you.”

Jorah stood up abruptly, forcing Euron to stumble backwards. “Your father was a cowardly liar. And you are no better. So, go ahead, make as many oaths as you wish. I’ll make one as well.” He stepped closer, and said without raising his voice, “You will never touch her as long as I live.”

Euron smiled, “That can be arranged. I’ve got an entire kingdom who wants to kill you and every other so-called ‘Hero of Pyke’.” There was a manic glint in his eye, letting her know that nothing would give him more pleasure than to harm Jorah in whatever way he could. She moved immediately, before Jorah could draw his sword, and grabbed his wrist, staying his hand, and turned her most Queenly glance and tone on Euron.

“We have come here in peace. It would be a shame if something were to happen before we have even begun the discussion.” She was pleased that at that precise moment both Rhaegal and Drogon swooped down and landed heavily at the edge of the pit, letting loose thunderous roars that shook the very ground they stood on.

Euron settled down after that, and Ser Jorah also remained silent, duly chastised for something he wasn’t responsible for.

The discussion and presentation of the wight went as well as could be hoped for, and Cersei accepted the truce.

For all of two minutes.

She was going to murder Jon Snow. When he finally bends the knee, he does it in such a way that everything they’ve gone through is rendered useless.

“You could have informed us that you intended to bend the knee. You could have waited to bend the knee.”

“I cannot make a vow I have no intention of upholding.”

“No, of course not. Because you value your honor more than the lives of my child, Ser Jorah’s brother and your own uncle.”

There was stunned silence from everyone. Jon Snow stared at her, with hurt and anger. “I am very sorry about their deaths. But I assure you, I have no intention of disrespecting them.”

“And yet you did.” Daenerys turned around, as did everyone else to look at Jorah. “Benjen told you to make good decisions, not just honorable ones like your father. In your love for honor you’ve just ensured that the Lannister armies will attack us from behind the moment we start marching North. As capable as our armies are, we can’t fight two enemies at once.” He shook his head and stepped closer.

“Brandon Snow, King Torrhen’s bastard brother, was sent to negotiate with Aegon and his sisters under the guise of sneaking into the camp to kill the Dragons. All the Lords, even Torrhen’s own sons believed that come dawn, they would fight to death for the North’s independence, because that is what their King let them believe. But when the sun rose, Torrhen surrendered.”

Tyrion took over. “He did not want Winterfell to become another Harrenhall, nor the North another field of fire. So, he lied to his bannermen, even his sons, and gave up his crown for the sake of his people. From this day, just like Torrhen, you are the King who Knelt. The only difference is that he actually saved his people by bending the knee.”

* * *

Rickon sat quietly in the centre, letting his brother and sisters deal with Petyr Baelish. Sansa had wanted to get rid of him as quickly as possible but he had insisted that they wait until most of their bannermen returned with their fighters. So, they waited, Sansa and Arya laughing secretly at his attempts to drive a wedge between them. What bothered Rickon was that the Mockingbird would have succeeded had Bran not intervened.

It was important to him that they trust each other. His father’s face was blurred in his memory, but he remembered one thing his father said to him before leaving for King’s Landing.

_Winter is coming Rickon. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives. Remember that, my little pup._

He remembered. He would always remember. Which is why he needed them to be together. It was why he would not leave Bran alone for too long, and why he was always checking up on Arya and Sansa making sure that they did not fight as they did when they were children. It was why he prayed every day for Jon’s return and insisted that Bran keep watch on him to make sure he was alright. It was also why he needed their bannermen be present to witness the execution of the man who had brought such grief to their family. Everyone needed to be together as they dealt with whomever would harm them, whether they were Ironborn raiders, mad men like Ramsay, the dead that haunted his brothers, or spineless cowards who poisoned with words.

“Knowledge is power. I remember everything there is to remember Lord Baelish.” Bran spoke.

Arya carried on, “You on the other hand, forgot somethings. The North remembers, Lord Baelish. And winter is always coming.”

Finally, the moment of reckoning came. Petyr Baelish fell to his knees and begged for mercy. But the Wild Wolf had no forgiveness to grant. He stood, with Arya’s dagger in hand, Sansa’s support at his back and Bran’s words in his ears. 

“The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword. It is the old way and it is our way. Go on Rickon.”

“Sansa please!” cried the mockingbird.

“I, Rickon of House Stark, Heir to Winterfell, son of Eddard Stark and Catelyn Tully, sentence you to die.”

Two guards held his arms and pulled his head back, exposing his throat. Like Shaggydog on a hunt, Rickon slashed it open with one clean swipe of the Valyrian Blade.

His first kill was the man who began the chain of misery for his family. The Starks had made their own justice.

* * *

While Tyrion went to negotiate with his sister, Jon went and sulked in a corner of the pit. Daenerys was angry at him, Ser Davos and just about everyone else present thought he was an idiot, and he was couldn’t help but wonder if Ser Jorah was regretting letting him keep Longclaw.

Before he left even Sansa had told him to be smarter than father and Robb. Ygritte was right, he knew nothing. Daenerys approached him, taking the small dragon skull from his hand, telling him that she could neither pretend that the Night King was not a threat, nor that Cersei would undo all the progress she had made till date. The conversation turned to the demise of her house. Why the bloody would she believe what a murderous witch had told her?

When she told him to drop the topic he let her be and asked her if she would leave her dragons in here when she took the throne.

“No, I will not. I almost made the same mistake my ancestors did with Rhaegal and Viserion. It was Tyrion who set them free.”

“Why did you lock them and not Drogon?”

She looked pained for a moment. “I had let them roam free over Slaver’s Day, now called Dragon’s Bay. While hunting a flock of sheep, Drogon killed the shepherd’s daughter. The man came to me, devastated, holding his child’s bones. Drogon went away for a time, he was spotted in the ruins of Old Valyria, but Rhaegal and Viserion were still with me. To ensure they didn’t do the same, I locked them away in the pyramid’s catacombs.”

“I’m sorry that happened. How did you finally tame them?”

“Dragons cannot be tamed. Not even by their mother. They can, however, be tempered with a firm tone and gentle command.”

He asked skeptically, “You mean to say that the dragons can act outside of your control whenever they want?”

“They are intelligent creatures, Lord Snow. Some say even smarter than men. They do as they please. Rest assured; they have learnt and do not plunder or burn anything as long as they are adequately fed. I have ensured that they are well taken care of.”

Jon nodded; his fears somewhat assuaged.

“Tell me Jon, how did you control Rhaegal?”

He wasn’t sure if Rhaegal had obeyed his command, or if he’d just followed his brother’s lead.

“I’m not sure that I did. I think he mostly followed your lead.”

That’s what Daenerys wanted to believe as well. But she knew that’s not what had happened. Rhaegal had gone down to catch him and Ser Jorah of his own violation, and he had flown back to the Wall with the intention of protecting his rider. She knew that because she had felt the same protective urge emanate from him as it did from Drogon for her. Her own bond with Rhaegal was unchanged, but there was an undercurrent of another’s heart intertwined with him. It was familiar. At some point, perhaps the moment he swooped low, Rhaegal had bonded with Jon Snow.

She had suspected Ser Jorah initially, as Rhaegal had known him since birth, but the Knight assured her that his only thought was to avoid falling off again, and getting back to the Wall as soon as possible. He hadn’t given any commands at all.

And it was not unheard of for a non-Targaryen to bond with a dragon, that too in a single moment. 

Rhaegal had landed on top of the wall next to Drogon, and Daenerys had quickly gone over to help them. The red-haired wildling helped a shivering half-frozen Jon Snow climb down. While Daenerys had stared after him, a one-eyed man had pushed past her to help Ser Jorah, who, she later realized, had been too hurt to climb down by himself.

She still felt guilty about ignoring Ser Jorah in favor of Jon. He deserved to be put before any budding ally, it was the least he should have from her for all his loyalty. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t realize that Jon Snow was staring at her. The intensity of his gaze made her blush.

She turned away to look at the platform.

Speaking of said friend, was she imagining things or had he just punched Sandor Clegane in the face?

Jon sprinted to the platform and she knew she hadn’t imagined it.

Lady Brienne had roughly pushed the men apart and was holding back Sandor Clegane who was complaining to Ser Davos about ‘the mad cunt’, whereas Jorah was slightly hunched over with a hand pressed to his chest furiously glaring at him, as Missandei kept a firm hold on his arm. Theon was standing in the center glancing between them as if intending to separate them should they decide to have another go at each other. Varys was pensieve while the Dothraki on the other hand looked disappointed that the fight had ended before they could properly enjoy it.

Jorah _never_ lost patience and behaved like this. Threatening to kill someone if they hurt her was normal, but impulsively throwing a punch to someone else wasn’t. Keeping that in mind, Daenerys ignored everyone else and moved closer to him. Missandei stepped aside for her, but when she made to touch him, he pulled away.

She lowered her hand, far more deeply hurt at his rejection of her touch than she thought was possible. _Is this how you felt in Mereen as I exiled you Ser?_

Jon asked the question she should have already asked. “Would one of you be so kind as to explain what happened here?”

Lady Brienne explained, “This idiot asked Ser Jorah if he was the bastard brother of Euron Greyjoy. Ser Jorah decided to kill him instead of answering.”

Jon and Daenerys turned to Clegane, looking equally appalled, while the rest twisted their faces in displeasure.

Clegane spoke in his own defense since no one else was going to, “Well, you tell me- ever seen a blonde northerner? They’re all dark haired unless one parent is from the south.”

Theon spoke up, surprisingly strong voiced, “There are no blonde Greyjoys either, just different shades of brown, you idiot. That means nothing.”

Ser Jorah looked at no one and said dispassionately. “My mother died in an Ironborn raid when I was eight, something for which Euron’s father took credit. He lied, no one in the North even believed him. My mother had killed the man who fatally wounded her.”

He locked eyes with Sandor Clegane, “I am Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, first and only trueborn son of Jeor and Sarah Mormont. Question it again, and it will be the last thing you do.”

He said it with venom, a threat made to put a stop to any whispers about his parentage and any insults to his mother’s virtue.

But she knew he was hurting deeply. He had loved his mother dearly; she knew because he had only mentioned her once. When he had claimed that he would remember the sight of her emerging from that pyre with baby dragons even after he had forgotten his mother’s face. It suddenly struck her how deep his devotion to her ran from the beginning.

Before she could say anything to him or have Clegane apologize, Tyrion returned with Cersei and her party in tow.

And once again, in the middle of the game of thrones, her loyal knight, who never asked for anything except permission to serve, was forgotten about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... Rickon Stark/Lyanna Mormont... any shippers?


	6. Trust me (Part I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's better to talk it out than fight it out....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter was too long so had to be split. Part II will be updated after I get 10 comments on this one [so that I know people are still reading] (¬‿¬)  
> or..... by Tuesday.  
> Whichever comes first.

They were on their way back to Dragonstone when Tyrion finally had a chance to talk with Daenerys. The sooner the better, he thought. The moment he had come back with Cersei he knew that something serious had happened in his absence.

“Your Grace.”

“Tyrion. I was about to call you. I wanted to know how you convinced Cersei.”

Tyrion started to tell her but soon noticed that she seemed distracted. He asked her why.

Daenerys sighed, “While you were gone, Sandor Clegane asked Jorah if he was truly Euron’s bastard brother.”

“Fuck! How the hell is he still alive?”

She looked at with slightly raised eyebrows, “I assume you know about whatever history there is between Euron and Jorah. Just so you know, Jorah punched him in the face but Brienne of Tarth pushed them apart before he could anything more.”

“I suppose he was too angry to remember he had a sword with him. That’s fortunate. And yes, I do know a bit about what happened between them. Hasn’t he told you?”

She looked deeply hurt at that. “He hasn’t told me anything. He didn’t tell me he was fostered at Winterfell as Rickard Stark’s ward with Jon’s uncle Benjen and his aunt, Lyanna Stark, the woman who was kidnapped and raped by Rhaegar. Nor did he tell me his childhood friend who as good as his brother from Bear Island was on Dragonstone as a member of Jon’s party or that almost his entire family had been killed in the war of the five kings until I asked him about it. I feel like I don’t even know who he is anymore.”

Tyrion stepped closer, “You know he is loyal to you. He has proven it again and again.”

She shook her head, “I know that. I don’t doubt his loyalty. I know everything there is about his life in Essos, but I hardly know anything about who he was before. Jon, Euron, Theon, Benjen, Cormac, they all remember him as he was. To them it doesn’t make much of a difference what he did in Essos, but rather what he did in Westeros. From the way Ser Barristan and even Jorah himself talked, it seemed to me all anyone knew him and hated him for was selling slaves. But so far, no one has even brought that up. Instead, they keep talking about his father preparing for the army of the dead, his visits to Winterfell and the Greyjoy Rebellion. Apparently, everyone knows him, except me.”

Tyrion poured them some and wine and had her drink it before talking. “I find it hard to believe in all your travels he never revealed anything about his life.”

She took another sip. “Mainly he told me about his marriages, how one ended in death the other in ruin, and even then he was vague in his answers.”

“He is a private man.” After Which Tyrion told her the summary of the Greyjoy Rebellion and how Mormont had come close to killing Euron Greyjoy, only for the bastard to jump into the sea and swim to his ship to escape.

“So, Ser Jorah is a rather famous Knight?”

“While many were honored after the war, only two people were Knighted by the King himself. Of them one had lost a hand, the other broke nine lances against the Kingslayer and married a Hightower. He was a minor lord, but he earned a place among the great warriors of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Daenerys scoffed. “He never said anything. He still won’t say anything. I’m worried, Tyrion. Today he punched someone, what if he had lost his temper with Euron and killed him at the gathering? I would have kept him out of Euron’s sight if I had known their enmity was that deep.”

“Hmm. Perhaps he thought he could handle being in the same space as Euron after all these years. Perhaps he didn’t want to tell you because he didn’t want you making a fuss for him. Maybe he was ashamed.”

She downed the rest of the wine in one gulp. “I understand that most men have fragile egos, but since when has Jorah been like most men?”

Tyrion refilled her goblet. “The Mormonts are a proud and old family. The entire island has an infamous warrior culture. Women fight alongside men, and men care for the children when they’re not out at sea. He is different from most people, but I don’t think that’s the problem. I think he hasn’t told you anything because it’s all in a past he left behind.”

“Well, clearly the others haven’t left it behind.”

“They remember him as they last saw him. You know him from after that. Would you like me to talk to him?”

She made a rather unladylike snort. “He’ll throw you into the Blackwater before we touch Dragonstone.”

“Don’t worry. He won’t.”

* * *

“I am going to murder him!”

“No, you are not.”

“I ought to!”

“Not really.”

“The Northern Lords are going to do it anyway!”

“Not if we take their heads first.”

“Enough!” Rickon punctuated his shout with a fist slamming on the table.

Sansa and Arya stopped their bickering looking at him simultaneously impressed and slightly annoyed. Bran watched passively from his corner. He may as well have been a piece of furniture for all he contributed to these meetings unless prompted. Rickon was fast losing patience with all of them.

He gestured to his sisters, “Would both of you be kind enough to sit down?” They obeyed, without argument.

“Now, let’s discuss what happened. Jon bent the knee to the Targaryen Queen?”

Sansa answered, “He’s done more than that. He’s betrayed the trust of the Northern Lords and given away your crown as well.”

“I never wanted a crown. And as for the trust of the Northern Lords, as of late they themselves have not proven to be very trustworthy. What we need to do is keep them calm so they don’t turn on us or Jon when he returns.”

Sansa sat back and crossed her legs, “Correct. The best way to do that is for you to remove Jon and claim the title of King. Once they find out, the Lords won’t keep him anymore. If you take it right now, claiming that Jon is better suited to commanding armies than ruling, they won’t be able to hurt him and will accept you. It’ll allow us to overrule his decision to bend the knee and keep the North independent.”

Arya frowned, “Jon is our family, we can’t do that to him.”

Sansa turned to her, “Which is why removing him from the throne and nulling his decision will keep him alive. Otherwise the Lords might decide to mutiny when he comes back, certainly killing him, and possibly sending the four of us to join him. Return him to his status of bastard of Winterfell and no one will give him a second glance.”

Arya frowned, and proposed another idea. Kill anyone who threatened Jon.

Rickon had heard enough. “We’re not doing either.”

Arya leaned forward in interest, while Sansa turned to him annoyed. “Rickon, did you not hear a word I said?”

“I did. And now I want you to hear something.” He turned to Bran. “Tell them what happened beyond the Wall.”

Bran obediently narrated the reckless plan to capture a wight to prove to Cersei that the army of the dead was real. He told them how Jon and his party had been trapped and how Daenerys had gone to their rescue, losing one dragon in the process. And how she had pledged to fight alongside them to defeat the Night King.

Sansa was sitting back, thoughtfully tapping her fingers on the table. Arya on the other hand looked rather dismayed at the dragon’s death. Rickon vaguely remembered Arya reading him stories of the Dragon Queen Visenya Targaryen.

After a while Sansa spoke up. “It makes sense. Jon was King in the North and as such her most powerful potential ally. By rescuing him, she cemented his loyalty to her, and conquered the North without any bloodshed. Quite clever of her.”

Rickon wanted to bang his head on a wall.

“She lost her Dragon. She considers them her children; Bran saw her tell Jon that.”

“Even better. Losing one of her so-called children while rescuing Jon, gave her his sympathy. Perfect tools for manipulation.”

Rickon sighed and rubbed his hands across his face, feeling far older than his almost thirteen years. He stood up and walked to the window. Without turning he asked his sister, “Who are you?”

Sansa bristled, “What sort of a question is that? I’m Sansa Stark, the Lady of Winterfell.”

“Are you still?” He faced her, barely keeping his anger in check, “Or have you become the sum of the people who tormented you all these years?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about baby brother.”

He walked over to her, “I do Sansa, which is why I have to tell you that you have become too suspicious of everyone. You’re determined to see enemies in every shadow and then doing everything possible, whether it is right or wrong, to stop them.” He extended his hands, waiting for her to take them. She did not. He continued speaking. “It was this suspicion that made you doubt Arya.”

Arya grumbled from the side, “As if I would ever hurt our family.”

He responded sharply, “You were no better Arya, letting Littlefinger trick you into doubting Sansa’s loyalty. Have both of you forgotten father’s words? The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. We are Starks, the wolves of Winterfell. Do you know what kept me alive in the wild? It was remembering that I had a pack out there and that one day the wolves would return. But all of you have forgotten what it means.”

He pointed to Sansa, “Not everyone is an enemy out to destroy our family Sansa.” He looked to Arya, “Killing people doesn’t solve everything. Not when there are other ways.” He turned to Bran, “Bran, what’s the point of your knowing everything if you won’t tell us and let us use that information?”

“Are you referring to Greywater Watch?”

“Among other things.”

“Summon Howland Reed, order him to answer the call for arms. He will explain. There is something I must tell Jon as well. But that is for his ears alone.”

Rickon shook his head, unwilling to deal with that. “Here’s what I want us to do. We go in together, and speak with the Northern Lords. I know what I want to say to them, I want you three to back me wherever necessary.”

“Jon did not leave you in charge Rickon, you don’t make the decisions.” He had expected Sansa to object.

“Just now you were ready for me to take the title of King. I am not a puppet Sansa. And you are no longer in charge. Jon is no longer King; I am claiming my title as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Sansa scoffed in disbelief. “If you’ve already decided to that, why are we even here?”

“Because we’re a pack.” He softened his voice, “I know that you are only trying to protect our family,” he looked over to Arya and Bran on the opposite end of the table, “You all are. And I love you all the more for it.” He turned back to face Sansa, “But you’re too suspicious to make balanced decisions, Arya is too murderous to make any decisions, and Bran… I don’t think there is a word to describe what you are.” He trailed off. “I need you to trust me.”

At length, Sansa got up, walked over to him, cupped his face in her hands and kissed him on the forehead. “You’re not a baby anymore are you Rickon? You’re right. I hate to admit it, but ever since coming back I’ve seen more enemies than friends- even our bannermen always seem ready to turn on us. Perhaps, I have become too suspicious. Bran, Arya what do you say- shall we let Rickon lead us?”

Arya vaulted over the table and hugged him, musing his hair, and Bran smiled.

* * *

Tyrion opened the door to Mormont’s cabin and stepped inside as uninvited as ever.

He found the sullen knight sitting back on a solitary chair and staring at the wall in front of him, completely oblivious to his surroundings. 

“What do you want Tyrion?” Well, perhaps not entirely oblivious.

“A conversation with an intelligent man.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me.” He still hadn’t taken his eyes off the wall.

Tyrion scoffed, “There is absolutely nothing flattering about you.”

“Is it wise for the pot to call the kettle black?”

“No more than it is for a dog to poke at a bear.”

Silence. By now Tyrion had settled himself on the chest at the foot of the bed.

Finally, Mormont turned his head to him and asked, “Why are you here Tyrion?”

From his pocket, Tyrion withdrew their wages from the fighting pits and tossed the coin to him. “This coin is quite lucky. You had it and you returned alive and relatively unhurt from beyond the wall, and when I had it, I survived a conversation with my sister while the Mountain stood right behind me.”

To his surprise, Mormont chuckled. He held up the coin and examined it in the dim light from the lantern. “This coin was given to us in the name of freedom. Perhaps that has something to do with the relatively good fortune it brought us. Or maybe it’s all in our heads, who can tell?” He tossed it back to Tyrion.

“I’ve been wondering something- you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to-”

“Just ask, I promise I won’t throw you overboard, or punch you in the face.”

“I’ll hold you to that. You’ve been in Westeros for months. Why haven’t you gone home yet? As far as I’m aware, you haven’t even contacted your family.”

Mormont swallowed and looked away. “Why would I have gone? I was pardoned by the crown, but that wouldn’t earn me the forgiveness of my family or restore the reputation I once had. My father is dead, and I was soon to join him when I returned. That was before I found out that almost my entire family was killed in the war of the five kings. The only one left alive is too young to even remember my existence, unless someone might have told her, and the people of Bear Island…” he trailed off.

Tyrion nodded. They sat in silence for a while. And though the quiet bothered Tyrion, he endeavored to maintain it for a time because if he needed to get that stubborn bear to talk, he would have to give him long sullen silences as well. Honestly, the way he behaved sometimes was as if there was a limit set on how many words he could utter in one day. And when that limit was reached, well, one would have a better chance at seducing Varys.

“You know a lot more than you let people believe.”

He shrugged, “It’s not my fault that people look at me and dismiss me as nothing but an aging man.”

“Indeed. If anything, it works to everyone’s benefit. Except, of course, the ones on the wrong side of your sword. Although, there are some things you don’t know, even if they are staring at you in the face.”

“Tyrion, it’s late, and I’ve had a rough day. If you intend on talking, then at least do me the courtesy of speaking plainly.”

“As you wish. Our Queen worries about you.”

“Then as her Hand, make sure she diverts her attention to more pressing concerns. I am capable of taking care of myself.”

Tyrion shook his head, “I don’t think you heard me. I told you on the beach before you left for Eastwatch. Our queen needs you.”

“And this comes from the man who told her she could not have me at her side.” He snapped unexpectedly.

“I was beginning to wonder when you would bring that up.” Tyrion kept his tone as neutral as possible. Tired and angry men were as honest in conversation as happy and satisfied men if provoked just enough to talk. He needed to tread carefully if he was to make progress.

Mormont stood up and turned his chair to face him. “Why did you do it?”

Much to Tyrion’s surprise, he did not sound angry at all. Resigned was more like it. 

“All through our captivity you claimed to be my friend and stopped the slavers from branding me with hot iron and breaking my bones only to betray me the one time I wanted your help.”

“I _was_ trying to help you.”

“By having me exiled again after revealing my secret? In what world is that helping?”

Tyrion clenched his fists and looked down at them. “I was trying to spare you the pain of unreturned affections. You loved her enough to go through all that and more and I was certain that she didn’t care even a fraction of that for you. No woman in my experience was worth all that. I thought if she sent you away a second time, you would leave her for good and spare yourself the torment of watching her marry a man suitable to her status. But you’re a fool who came back to die. A fool in love that is.”

Mormont opened his mouth and closed it without saying anything. He worked his jaw a bit, then spoke again, “Why? I kidnapped you, it was my fault we got captured by slavers…”

He opened his fists and looked him in the eye. “I told you while we were in chains. I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards and broken things.”

“I’m neither a bastard nor a cripple.”

Tyrion did not point out that he failed to deny being broken. Northerners were proud, he let the man have the dignity he so desired.

“What made you change your mind about her needing me?”

He was curious now. Good. “I understand more now. I was wrong; she does care for you and she does indeed need you by her side. I can’t explain it- maybe it has something to do with the fact that you’ve known her since she had nothing, not even her dragons- but she is wiser, calmer, and even kinder when you’re near. Not to mention happier. When she dragged you to the painted table room the day you came back, her smile was brighter than I had ever seen.”

Mormont tried to wave him off, but Tyrion pressed on. “It goes the other way as well. You are far more honorable and generous when you serve her. You both bring out the best in the other without even realizing it.”

“I’ll admit that I feel the need to be better than I am when I’m with her, but the same is not true for her. She has always been someone who can and should rule, too good be real at times.”

 _You really are a fool in love, my friend,_ thought Tyrion.

“She is. As frustrating as her impatience can be, and as frightening her temper is, she does make me proud to serve her. She saved me you know, after Varys smuggled me out of King’s Landing, I didn’t know what to do with my life, other than drink. Then he told me of her… and well, you know the rest.”

They forced smiles at the reminder of their journey. “Tyrion, this has possibly been the most enjoyable conversation I have had with you.”

“What a terrible thought.”

“Aye. But it’s not over yet, is it?”

“Like I said, you know more than anyone realizes. I went to speak with Daenerys about today’s events. She was deeply troubled by today’s incident.”

He sighed, “Look, I’m not sorry for what I said or did. I couldn’t just sit there while Euron insulted my mother and threatened Daenerys in the same breath. What I do regret is allowing him to provoke me into aggression like that. I’m also not going to apologize for punching Clegane in the face. He deserved it for daring to suggest I was an ironborn bastard and not a northerner.”

“He did deserve it, both of them actually. I only gave Jaime the assurance that Daenerys would behave if Cersei behaved, there was nothing about you or Euron in our deal, so it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you kept some things hidden from her. She is beginning to feel that she doesn’t know who you are. You have a history in Westeros and it’s hot on your heels, and everyone knows it, except her. I gave her the general gist of what I know about the conflict between you and Euron, but she needs to hear it from you. You need to trust her with the truth. Don’t make the same mistake twice.”

“I didn’t… I thought it wasn’t relevant.”

“Are you lying to just me or yourself as well?”

He looked away again, “Some wounds never heal. I don’t want to burden her with my past-”

“She already is. No matter what happens, you are one person she will refuse to let go. She had plenty of chances to kill you, but she spared you every time, and sending you away hurt her as much as it hurt you. Your most shameful acts are selling a few men into slavery and spying on her. Since then you have fought to liberate hundreds of thousands of slaves and even been enslaved yourself, you have saved her life far more times than when you risked it. You have done your penance and received punishment. Let her know the rest. Also, are you truly burdening her if it is what she wants?”

“She needs to look forward, not backwards, and certainly not my towards my past of all things.”

Tyrion could see he had almost gotten through to him. He still seemed a bit unsure, valuing his privacy, letting his shame win over her desire to know him, “Look at it this way- today what Euron said caught her off guard. She didn’t know how to react because she didn’t know anything about what he was talking about. Up north, there are many who will remember you or will have at least heard of you, good or bad. No, don’t try to deny it. Even members of the Kingsguard knew about you after the Siege of Pyke and the tourney at Lannisport. You’re not as unknown as you like to believe. Do you think people in your own homeland would not have talked about you at the height of your glory? People will attack her for who her armies and small council consists of. We are all the sum of are pasts. She has a right to know who all of us were before coming into her service so she can be prepared for any attack that comes in any manner in the name of any of us.”

“I don’t want her to suffer the consequences of my decisions.” Ah, the protective warrior was back.

“We can’t prevent everyone from talking, but we can make sure she has replies ready to shut them up without taking their tongues.”

Mormont stroked his beard with his hand, looking exhausted. “You’re right, she deserves to know exactly who is serving her.” His shoulders slumped a bit, “I’ll speak with her. Not today though.”

Tyrion smiled. _Mission accomplished_. “It has certainly been a long day.”

Just then they heard Theon call out that they had reached Dragonstone.

“Get some rest tonight Mormont. I’ll see you in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About Tyrion's reason for having Jorah (re-) banished...... well, I've been scratching my head about that scene since I saw it.  
> The whole time Tyrion behaves like he's Jorah's friend. Rather than staying hidden in the fighting pits he shows himself and presents himself as the gift for Daenerys, he doesn't even tell her how he and Jorah ended up together, i.e, via a drunken kidnapping. He defends Jorah, making him sympathetic, saying that he is not the man he once was, he is devoted, he loves her, killing him is not a good decision.... and then has him banished.   
> Can anyone explain to me how it makes sense?
> 
> Well, this is my personal headcanon about why he did it.


	7. Trust me (Part II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More conversations with some spices of angst, humor and fluff thrown in.
> 
> Starts in Dragonstone and ends in Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said I will post part II after I get 10 comments on part I or by Tuesday... I expected it to be Tuesday.  
> So thank you to all the wonderful readers who are following this work and here you go- I have honored my word!

Facing the Lords and Ladies of the North and Knights of the Vale the next morning was very difficult. The moment Sansa announced to them that Jon had bent the knee to Daenerys Targaryen, well, suffice to say, all hell broke loose.

Ser Yohn Royce insisted that he had pledged the Knights of the Vale on Lady Sansa’s word and after everything that the Vale had lost in the Rebellion, including Jon Arryn’s heir at the time, he would not tolerate this betrayal.

The Northern Lords and Ladies were of similar mind. As Lady Mormont stated so clearly, “We did not give him a crown so he could give it up!” That was indeed the general consensus of everyone gathered.

It was in the middle of this chaos, that Rickon gave voice to thoughts that had been going around in his head since Lord Umber had betrayed him and handed him over to Ramsay Bolton.

“My Lords and my Ladies, I know that you are unhappy with my brother’s decision. But before you decide anything for yourselves, I want you to listen to what I have to say.”

“The Bastard gave away the North, why should be listen to the boy?” Someone shouted. From where he was standing, Rickon could not see who it was.

It was Lyanna who came to his support. “Rickon Stark freed the Vale and the North from Petyr Baelish. He deserves to be heard.”

There was some grumbling, but no one would dare argue with the little she-bear. Even though the only thing Rickon had done was slit his throat, Bran, Arya and Sansa had done the rest.

“Our old Nan told us that Wildlings are savages who rape and plunder and drink the blood of their enemies from their skulls the way we drink wine from goblets. And yet, Wildlings fought alongside Northerner’s to take back Winterfell from Bolton. It was a wildling woman who kept me safe, sheltered and fed for years.

The Umbers are bannermen to the Starks, I have been told that Greatjon named Robb his king. But his elder son Smalljon killed my direwolf, Shaggydog and handed me over to Ramsay, while his younger brother, Ned Umber made sure I had food, water and a blanket while I was his brother’s captive.

Rickard Karstark defied Robb’s orders and lost his head, his men abandoned my brother, but Alys Karstark sits among us, as loyal to the wolves as any other.

Theon Greyjoy betrayed Robb and stole Winterfell, driving away me and Bran. A few years later, Theon Greyjoy took Sansa and helped her escape from Ramsay, letting her go to the Wall to Jon, and which led to them getting me back as well as our home.

My father was an honorable man who lived by his vows. My brother Robb broke his vow to Walder Frey and lost his life, his wife and child’s life, our mother’s life, and the lives of all those who followed him.” His voice broke a little towards the end. He took a deep breath and continued, willing himself not to cry.

“Do you understand what I am trying to say? A loyal father does not mean a loyal son, and if the elder brother is an oathbreaker then it does not mean the younger brother is the same. A king can be undefeated on the battlefield but still lose, and a man may go from a brother to traitor to savior all in a few years.”

The hall was silent now, everyone chewing on Rickon’s words. Pride and reason collided, while Sansa wondered how her baby brother had grown so wise. What she didn’t know was that Osha had been far wiser in the ways of the world than people thought her to be, and that in the wild, Rickon’s identity as a Stark and snippets of lessons his brothers received and his father’s guidance were all he had to keep himself sane.

“All of you trusted Jon enough to name him king, trusted him enough to believe him about the army of the dead. Sansa tells me you all have brought men, women, boys and girls with as many weapons and sacks of grain as you can carry to fight the war he has told you about. I ask you, to trust him once more. Let him return to Winterfell, give him the chance to explain his reasons for bending the knee after spending more than two moons with the Dragon Queen.”

“Tell us little wolf, are you not angry that your bastard brother has given up the crown that was to be yours?” Lord Hornwood called out.

“I am not, Lord Hornwood. I have no use for a crown. I care more about keeping my pack safe than any title. My pack, that includes not just those of my blood, but every northerner, and any other who may choose to follow my family.”

Approving murmurs went around the hall.

“That’s all well and good, Lord Stark, but what are we to do when a silver haired dragon comes with your brother?”

Rickon turned to Sansa. She realized that this was all Rickon was capable of, he understood right and wrong, but leading was more than that. Someday, her brother may be a great man, but right now, standing up and reasoning with people was the most he could do. 

She took over, “We are proud Lord Manderly, not petty. As the Lord of Winterfell has reminded us, we cannot judge someone on the actions of their kin or even their past. We shall welcome her as tradition dictates, and reserve our judgement until we have seen her for ourselves. If she turns out to be more like Good Queen Alysanne rather than the Mad King, that is well and good, if not, we got rid of the dragons once before, we shall do it again.”

The promise of a crusade against southern rulers appeased the Lords and Ladies far more than anything else. Sansa watched keenly, noting that though they had heard what Rickon said, they were more satisfied with her words of rebellion even though she had said it as a possibility rather than a promise; not to mention it was entirely dependent on the Dragon Queen’s nature.

Daenerys Targaryen had a long and arduous road to walk if she wanted the trust of the Vale and North.

Sansa meanwhile, had to figure out if it was she who was wrong to be suspicious, or Rickon was to fault for being so trusting.

* * *

Jon suggested that they sail together. They needed to give more focus to their alliance and her arriving on dragons looking like either of Aegon’s sisters would not do it. A more personal reason, one he was not yet ready to admit to himself, and even on the penalty of death would not admit to anyone else, was that he wanted some time with her alone, with no dragonglass to mine and no armies to handle.

The only stitch in his plan was Ser Jorah Mormont.

Longclaw, Jeor Mormont, and Uncle Benjen had created a sort of kinship between them. He liked the man, he truly did. What he didn’t like was that he was completely derailing his plan with sound logic that no one could deny. The relation between him and Daenerys also confused him. Several times now, he had seen Daenerys treat him with great affection, but each time, the man seemed to pull away. And yet, when she wasn’t looking, he gazed at her fondly, with admiration and respect, but something more. They were both protective of each other. They also had a history, and valued each other’s presence in their lives. And yet, Daenerys had made clear that he was not her romantic partner and had never been.

Truthfully, Jon Snow did not know what to think with respect to them.

But it didn’t seem to matter anymore, because she chose his suggestion. And in that, he felt a bit of triumph. Finally, he’d managed to succeed at something.

In the middle of his inner celebration he failed to notice the look she gave her sworn knight.

Daenerys chose Jon’s suggestion of a display of alliance over Jorah’s insistence of her safety. As Queen, the needs and demands of her people came before her own concerns. She gave Jorah a look that she hoped would convey that it was a political decision and did not have anything to do with either of the men making them. It certainly had nothing to do with wanting some time alone and away from everyone and everything else. She pretended she didn’t notice him shuffling his feet and his compliant expression. She had expected him to protest strongly.

“A raven has been sent to Lord Tarly to march all his banners to the North along with as many supplies such as food and medicine they can spare. Tyrion, Varys and Missandei will sail with me, Lord Snow. The Dothraki will meet up with the remainder of the Unsullied led by Grey Worm near Harrenhall. Ser Jorah shall lead the Dothraki.”

At that, Jorah protested, “As your Queensguard, my place is by your side.”

“As the General of my armies, your place is at the head of my armies.” She saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes before he could hide it. She found herself scrambling to explain.

“They need someone to lead them, especially while crossing the neck, and there is no one more suited for the task than you.” She was angry at him, yet she felt guilty for being angry at him. Her anger was justified though, as Tyrion had assured her that he was the one being stubborn.

“As my Queen commands.” He nodded deferentially, but she knew he was unhappy.

Daenerys half-heartedly contemplated calling him out on his recent behavior.

“Your Grace,” Missandei interjected softly, “May I ride with the Dothraki instead?” She explained quickly. “They would join the remaining Unsullied sooner and Ser Jorah might go mad with just Qhono for company.”

Daenerys nodded, silently acquiescing to her request. The rest of the meeting was spent ironing out the finer details. First thing at dawn, ships would take the Dothraki to the mainland, just beyond Duskendale, from where they would start riding on the Kingsroad. After the meeting was a short conversation with Theon and a promise. If he could free his sister, they would both come to Winterfell to fight.

Later that night Daenerys ambushed Jorah in his chambers while he was packing his meagre belongings. Three pairs of clothes and two books. Not including one fur-lined coat and two cloaks, one made of thin wool for the south, the other of fur for the north.

“You, good ser, are driving me insane.”

“By prioritizing your safety?” He didn’t even bother looking at her.

“You are in no place to talk about my safety when you have been throwing yourself headlong into danger at every opportunity you receive.” She hadn’t meant to sound like Viserys during one of his tantrums. She had meant to sound like a Queen.

He stilled in his movements and slowly straightened to look at her, a deep furrow in his brow. “What are you talking about?”

Daenerys starting pacing, “Your reckless plan to get back to me even though I told you I would kill you, your sailing through the ruins of Valyria-”

“To avoid pirates-”

She kept on, letting her voice get more accusing with each word, “-your intentional defiance in front of the slavers for which they almost broke your bones as Tyrion so told me, entering the fighting pits for heavens’ sake, not once but twice, coming into Vaes Dothrak unarmed,”

“For cultural reasons-”

“-your brawl with both the Tarlys,”

“They attacked first-”

“- and most recently being the first to volunteer to go on a wight hunt instead of having some of the wildlings do it!” She finished with a yell.

“I’m not a coward to sit behind!”

Daenerys stopped pacing and looked him in the eye. “There are other ways to showcase your courage, it’s almost as if you’re deliberately putting yourself in harm’s way-” She broke off, realization striking her, “You _are_. You are deliberately putting yourself into danger to… to what? Are you trying to prove your worth?”

“I did what I felt I should do.”

“That’s not what I asked. You don’t even deny it.”

No answer, which was all the answer she needed. “Why are you pulling away from me?” And why did she sound hurt instead of angry at that stubborn old bear? She was angry just a few minutes ago.

He looked confused, “I’m not…”

“In the Dragonpit, when Missandei stepped aside, you pulled away when I tried to touch you. You refused to discuss what had happened.”

Jorah looked stricken, “Khaleesi, I… I didn’t intend to hurt you. I just…” He closed his eyes and ran a hand through his hair, “Forgive me. I was angry and ashamed of myself.”

She moved closer, reaching for his hand again, he met her halfway this time. Unfortunately, he knocked over his books in the process.

Daenerys smiled and let go of his hand, bending to pick them up. Her hand found a parchment sticking out of one. She read it before Jorah could take it back.

“When did you write this, Ser?”

A pause, “At the Citadel, just before Samwell came claiming he might be able to save me.”

He didn’t need to explain further. She knew what she held in her hand. It was letter saying goodbye to her, which she would receive after his death. She stood up, having had enough of his reserved behavior, his privacy be damned.

“What happened?” Her tone made it plain that he would not get out of this one, something he understood.

“The Archmaester told me I had six months at best before the disease took my mind. He gave me a night instead of shipping me off to join the stone men because I’m an anointed Knight. It was a chance to kill myself with some dignity.” He finished quietly, avoiding her eyes.

He was _still_ holding something back. Daenerys had to know what was wrong.

“Jorah, there are times when I trust _you_ more than I trust myself. Why can’t you do the same?”

He kept his eyes fixed on the ground, looking ashamed. 

“Why can’t you trust me with your thoughts? Have we not been through enough together to be completely honest with each other?”

He breathed out a laugh, “We have… most people won’t even believe our stories.”

He sat down heavily on the bed, his face in his hands.

Jorah had always been reserved; she knew that from the beginning. He was knowledgeable, telling her all sorts of legends and stories, but never about himself. She had thought it normal, a facet of quiet persona, but this… this was out of hand. 

She sat next to him, and gingerly placed her hand on his shoulder.

“I wasn’t always Jorah. I was ‘Sunny’ before that.”

“Sunny?” It was such an innocent name, one that brought images of the shining Essoi sun into her mind.

He removed his hands from his face and rested his elbows on his knees, keeping his gaze to somewhere between his boots. “Aye, Sunny. A sweet summer child who wanted to be a scholar, and had no interest in weapons or fighting. Mother insisted that father let me be rather than force me to learn. When she was killed, I couldn’t stop thinking that had I known how to fight, I might have saved her.”

“You were a child!”

He lifted his head to look at her. “A child who held his breath and hid in a corner of the sea caves an watched her die.”

She didn’t know what to say. He turned away again.

“Summer children don’t survive in winter, was what my father said. He could hardly stand to look at me after her death. Maybe he blamed me for it, or maybe it was that I took after her in appearance, I could never be sure. After she died, all I cared about was becoming the greatest warrior there ever was. I spoke only when necessary, refusing to play with other children, choosing to train until I couldn’t lift my arms. Before I knew it, ‘Sunny’ was gone, and only Jorah, the Mormont heir remained.”

“You can still be ‘Sunny’.”

“No more than you can be ‘Dany’.”

The first thing that truly made Daenerys feel a connection with Jorah was their shared prayer for home. And now here was another. Dany had died in the Red Waste leaving behind the Queen, Daenerys, just like Sunny had died in the sea caves leaving behind the Knight, Jorah. But there were times, when deep inside her, she still felt like Dany. Who was to say that Sunny wasn’t hiding in that broad chest?

“At the Citadel, I planned on killing myself at sundown. I held the sword to my neck, ready to throw myself on it. But I couldn’t. I was too scared to die. It would have been a pitiable death, a disgraced knight who contracted greyscale and killed himself with no friends or family to mourn him. I… I was scared and alone, the way I had been in those caves. I wrote that letter not just to say farewell to you, but also to delay my own death as much as possible.

When Randyll Tarly killed himself, without any hesitation, it shook me. I felt like a coward. Going beyond the Wall, where my father had died, it felt right. It was something I felt I had to do.”

“You are not a coward; you are one of the bravest men I have ever met. I, for one, am glad you delayed killing yourself long enough for Samwell to come. I prefer you alive, Ser, and I would have mourned you, though I prefer I never have to. And as for your being scared to die, as a wise man once said, all men fear death.”

“I don’t know who the bigger fool is, the man who said that or the woman who actually listened to him.”

She smacked his arm. He didn’t pull away, instead gazing at her with deep unfathomable eyes, and an expression that could be anywhere between love, and confusion. Perhaps a tinge of fear as well.

He took a deep breath and sat straighter. “You’re right. I have been holding back. I’ve been holding back from everyone, even my family, since mother died. When I met you, after a very long time, I wanted to tell someone everything there is to tell.” He hesitated, “If you would want to listen.”

She smiled and took his hand in hers, even with both she could barely cover his.

“I want you to trust me. You know me better than anyone. I want to know you the same way.”

He tells her everything. He tells her how his mother was everything good and kind and wonderful and how losing her made the world less vibrant. How his father was tough but fair, loved him dearly but had little warmth. How his failure to prevent his mother’s death and the subsequent lies Greyjoy spread, cut him so deeply that he left everything behind and went to the Wall in atonement for a crime not his own.

He revealed to her how he feared for his own family, for the safety of his little cousins when the news of Lyanna Stark’s kidnapping came, how angry and devastated he felt when Rickard Stark, a man he admired and adored in equal measure, was killed. He didn’t insult her family though. Not once did he speak ill of Aerys or Rhaegar except to say that they were not the men he wanted to be ruled by. She could hardly fault him for it.

He tells her how the Greyjoy Rebellion was more than a war for him- it was a chance to have his people crush the ironborn in their own home, a chance to avenge his mother. He tells her, with tears in his eyes how his father called him to Castle Black when he returned, Knighted and married. How, for the first and only time since his mother’s death his father embraced him and told him he was proud of him.

“It comforts me, to know that was the last time I faced my father. Even though I know that he probably hated me when he died.”

“I don’t think he did.”

He doesn’t respond, and in the end Daenerys resorts to asking about his time as Lord to bring his thoughts away from this guilt trip he’s on. Though he doesn’t say it so many words, trying to tone it down, she realizes that he had been a wonderful Lord for his people. She knows because he tells her of the nameless bastard boy he took as a steward and the only one he ever knighted. Ser Clancey of Bear Island, the man who now protects his little cousin. She understands why Cormac knelt to him and died for him even after all these years and hopes that the ones that remain would love him the same.

For almost two hours, he walks around the room, sits next to her, turns away, busies himself in packing, but never stops talking. It’s the most verbal he’s ever been, once he’s started, the words cannot stop.

At some point, she leans back against the headboard, and pulls the furs over her knees. By the end of his life’s tale, she has felt everything he has gone through, and she understands him better than ever. Her respect for him has increased substantially and she knows she was a fool to ever distrust him. She is honored to have a man like him in her service, as her advisor and general. She is grateful beyond words to have him as her friend.

For once, she does not restrain herself, and lets him know, how accomplished she thinks he is, and watches him blush and mumble something into the pillow he’s resting his forearms on. She doesn’t look away when he shyly raises his head to gaze at her, his eyes silently asking if she means what she has said. He looks so open, so vulnerable, his smile more endearing than any brooding gaze Jon Snow can ever send her way. She has this sudden urge to pull him close and keep him pressed to her.

By now, the fire has died down and the room has grown too cold for her comfort. Not Jorah’s though, he lies spread out on his stomach on top of the covers and furs basking in the chilled air that wafts in through the open window while she is completely burrowed under with just her head peeking out. For some time, they sleepily watch each other, Daenerys asking little questions, him answering, her feeling more at peace than ever, close to drifting off, Jorah, wide awake but smiling so softly, his eyes tender.

There is a lock of hair across her eyes that’s annoying her, but she’s too comfortable to even consider taking her hands out from underneath the furs. He notices, and with a whispered ‘May I?’, he tucks it behind her ear, his fingers lingering for a moment. She’s too tired to pull away, not that she wants to. Instead, she wants to stay here, in this moment, just existing with him. She wonders if his lips are as soft as they look. She’s half-asleep and while she knows that there is danger in these thoughts, she is not very inclined to caution.

“My father used to say that the things we love destroy us every time. He was wrong. It’s losing them that destroys us. The things we love, truly love, they save us every time.” Those whispered words are the last she remembers hearing from him before sleep finally claims her.

Through the night, and well into morning, she dreams of waterfalls and snowy cliffs, groves of pine, and roaming bears. In all her dreams there is someone just out of her line of sight, she knows it’s him even though she cannot see him. No matter how many times she tries to catch him, he remains out of reach.

When she wakes, it is in an empty room. She finds a note next to her pillow saying, ‘See you at Moat Cailin’. It takes her a moment to remember that he and Missandei were to leave just before dawn and as she looks around the barren room, she knows that he has gone without even saying farewell. She sits there, in his bed, in his room, which ironically has nothing of him at all and doesn’t know if she should be angry at him or upset. In the end, she finds herself regretting sending him with the Dothraki and away from her for a fortnight or more depending on the winds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a fair warning, the next chapter isn't quite ready yet, so it might be longer wait...  
> but hopefully, this one has ended on a positive enough note to keep everyone satisfied for now.
> 
> Ps. Comment and recommend to substantially increase my writing speed!


	8. Journey to Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The march to Winterfell has begun.  
> Lyanna and Rickon bond over their families, Daenerys has an interesting visit in her cabin at night, and Grey Worm reunites with his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is... the next chapter.  
> Grey Worm is back peeps!

“May I speak freely my Lady?”

Lyanna turned to Ser Clancey, “Even if I refuse, you will speak so you may as well, Ser.”

Ser Clancey nodded without pausing in sharpening the blade of his poleaxe or meeting her eyes.

“You do not seem to be particularly pleased by the news we received last night.”

Lyanna did not want to talk about the news they had received last night. Last evening, at dinner in the Great Hall, Lady Sansa had received and upon Rickon’s insistence decided to read aloud the raven detailing the Dragon Queen’s armies and their route of travel with the expected date of arrival. While the Queen and half her council along with most of the Unsullied would be arriving by ship at White Harbor along with Jon Snow’s party, the Dothraki horde and the remaining Unsullied would be riding on the Kingsroad. They would be led by the General of her armies, and member of her Queensguard, Ser Jorah Mormont.

She could still feel eyes staring at her from every corner in the room and the hushed silence that fell over the loud hall when they heard that name.

Rickon broke the silence with an easy smile, “A relative of yours, Lady Mormont?”

She could only nod, too shocked to say anything. _He’s alive! He’s alive… he’s coming to Winterfell… he’s with a Targaryen?_

The first emotion she had felt was relief. An overwhelming relief that made her forget to breath and lost her the ability to form coherent thoughts. Despite her insistence that he must be dead, she had in her heart held out the hope that he, away from Westeros and the bloodshed that had happened in recent years, would be alive. The second emotion she had felt was happiness. She was happy to hear that he was coming to Winterfell and she would meet him again.

Then the rest of the information had registered. That he was coming as the General of an army of savage horse lords belonging to a Targaryen. It took her quite some time to wrap her head around that one.

Unfortunately, Lord Glover decided to open his loud and unknowledgeable mouth. “Jorah Mormont was sentenced to death by your father, Ned Stark. You ought to have him killed before he even steps inside Winterfell’s gates.”

She remembered hearing some grumbling but none of that mattered because before anyone could say anything, she stood up and snapped, “You can’t do that!”

Once again silence reigned in the Hall. Rickon turned to his sister, a question clear in his eyes. Lady Sansa took over the gathering.

“May we ask why Lady Mormont?”

Lyanna’s anger at Lord Glover faded into mist, she blinked at her Lady. She began, “Because…” _because he’s family._ That was the only reason she had. He was her family.

But that was not enough reason to shout over her liege lord and forbid him from doing something. Thankfully, unlike her, Maester Philip still had a working mind.

“My Lord, may I speak?” For once, he was actually dressed as a maester and with his salt and pepper hair that would soon be turning white, he was allowed to speak.

“Lady Mormont objects because the sentence on Ser Jorah Mormont’s head is no longer in existence. Shortly before the death of King Robert Baratheon, during the time your father, Lord Eddard Stark was his Hand, House Mormont received a copy of the Royal Pardon granted to our exiled Lord. I can have someone send it from Bear Island if you wish to ascertain it for yourselves.”

Robett Glover called out, shocked beyond reason, “What did that son of a bitch get a Royal Pardon for?”

“With all due respect Lord Glover, Ser Jorah was birthed by Lady Sarah Mormont and raised by Lady Maege Mormont, both brave and honorable warrior women. The people of Bear Island would thank you to not insult either of them.” It was unheard of to have a Maester speak so sharply that too to a highborn Lord. Robett Glover shut his mouth for the remainder of the evening.

Maester Philip continued as if the disruption had not happened, “We do not know why the Pardon was granted, only that it was. There is also one more piece of information for the young Lord’s consideration. It pains me to say so, and I or the residents of Bear Island have no ill will towards your father, but the truth is, his sentencing of Ser Jorah was not in accordance to the law.”

Gasps went around among the older nobles who, unlike her, understood why this was important.

“Indeed. Our laws are clear, that no matter how grave the crime or how low or high the birth of the accused, each man must be given an opportunity to defend himself. Ser Jorah was never given that chance as there was no trial. He was stripped of his titles and lands and asked to face execution, all without being allowed to say a word in his own defense.”

“It is true.” Spoke Bran Stark, eerily from his perch at the edge of the table. Something about him always sent chills down Lyanna’s back. “Ned Stark did not listen to any explanations when Maege Mormont tried to defend her nephew. He claimed she loved him too much to believe a word against him.”

Grumbling went around the hall. Eventually, Lady Sansa was able to calm everyone allowing Rickon to strongly suggest, or in other words order the nobles to treat everyone from the Dragon Queen’s party with proper courtesy and respect. For all his reasoning about not disrespecting her by insulting her party, it was only when Lady Arya casually remarked that it would take her dragons minutes to turn Winterfell into Harrenhall did everyone agree to remain on their best behaviors.

“Are _you_ pleased by last night’s news, Ser Clancey?”

“You know that I am. I am what I am today because of his kindness. My sole purpose in life is to serve the Mormonts, because that is all he ever asked from me.”

“Have you no want anything else? A wife perhaps?”

“No, my Lady. There is great pride and joy in serving someone worthy. As wise and capable as you are, you are but a child. Perhaps someday you will understand. It goes beyond words, not that I have ever been any good with them. You on the other are so good with them that you are able to twist the conversation away from topics you do not want to discuss.”

She forced herself to not blush at his chiding. She still refused to answer though, instead choosing to fiddle with her hunting knife’s handle. Since the day she had received it, it had been strapped to her right thigh. She pulled it out and ran her fingers over the wave patterns.

“What bothers you little Lady?”

She kept her eyes on the knife. “Is he your Lord or am I your Lady?”

“Must I choose one over the other? Are you both not from the same house raised with the same values? Will you both not be on the same side in the battles to come? But if you must hear it, here is your answer- you are the Lady I serve and he is the Lord who made me what I am. You both have your own place in my heart, but I will serve you not only because that is what he asked of me but because I believe you require my service more than he could.”

She didn’t know how to respond to him. The questions he had asked were valid. She would not be meeting Jorah on the opposite side of a battle. He was coming as an ally. But he wasn’t supposed to be an ally. He was supposed to be one of them. A Northerner.

“Good morning Lyanna.”

Ser Clancey stood up immediately, “Lord Stark.” He greeted Rickon with a low bow.

Lyanna stood up as well, “Good morning Rickon.”

Rickon nodded to them both and gestured them to sit. He laid his spear flat on the ground and took a seat next to her. As he sat, his shoulder lightly brushed against hers.

“Forgive me for last night. I had not intended to raise my voice to you.” Best to get an apology out of the way before anything else.

Rickon waved her off with a small laugh. “Doesn’t matter.” He saw the knife in her hand. “May I?”

Lyanna handed it to him, but felt the urge to snatch it back once she let go of it. She watched as Rickon flicked it open and balanced it on his palm. He twirled it deftly, and examined the carving on the handle.

“It’s an excellent knife. Who made it?”

Lyanna felt uncomfortable. She shifted in her seat and took back the knife from Rickon’s unresisting fingers.

Rickon’s brow furrowed, “Have I said something wrong?”

She shook her head, staring intently at the knife. She saw Ser Clancey get up and move away a bit to give the two nobles privacy. He already knew about the knife, being the one who strapped it to her leg. Rickon shifted closer and angled himself towards her. Her right shoulder was now almost touching his chest. He leaned in close, his hand hovering near her wrist.

“Lyanna? We are friends, you can tell me anything. I promise not to tell anyone.” He was speaking very softly.

She swallowed, “My cousin made it. Jorah.” She clarified.

“Ah.” He nodded, not pushing her for more than she wanted to say.

“He left before my third nameday, but he had finished it and kept it aside for me to have it when I was older. I remember him being gone more than I remember him being there…but I remember this. I saw him, carving the handle, humming some tune I can’t recall. And now, after all these years he’s coming back, at the head of a Dothraki army of all things.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” She finally looked at him, but he was staring off into the distance. She followed his gaze in the general direction of the archery training yard.

“When Sansa told me that Robb had been betrayed by the Freys because he broke an oath he gave them, I was so angry at him. All that time I thought that he had died in battle like the King he was, but instead he got himself and mother killed because he fell in love and that mattered to him more than the war.” He looked to her. “Despite that, if he were walk in from the gates of Winterfell, I’d run to him and wrap my arms around him.”

“Why?” 

“Because he’s family. I love him. I always will, even though I’m still angry at him. And mother too, even though she left instead of staying with me and Bran.”

A tear slipped out the corner of his eyes and down his cheek. He swiped at it and turned away from her. She took his hand in hers. He glanced at their joined hands, and lifting them, placed a short kiss on her knuckles. Before she could react, he let go and stood up grabbing his spear and walked away with a short bow.

* * *

It was evening and the winds coming in through the porthole were growing colder by the minute. It would only get colder from here now that they were heading north. Daenerys didn’t really remember how cold it was at the Wall, her mind being occupied by too many thoughts and emotions she couldn’t define to actually register the cold.

She had been told that the northerners are hostile to outsiders, Jorah himself was insistent that some commoner might get it into his head to kill her and become a hero. It annoyed her how apprehensive she felt about heading north. She chalked it up to Jorah’s constant worrying and the tragedy her last excursion north had been.

She heard a soft knock on her door, thinking it must be Tyrion, she went to open only to be greeted by Jon Snow’s hopeful face.

“Can I come in?”

Having no reason to refuse, Daenerys moved aside to let him enter. He looked around while she softly closed the door. When she turned to him, she found he was once again staring at her with the same look he had in ship sailing back from Eastwatch and the Dragonpit. The same look he had when they suggested they sail together.

_It’s interesting, these heroes you mention… they all fell in love with you._

Daenerys hadn’t paid attention to Tyrion’s words. But looking at Jon Snow now, she realized that perhaps there was some truth in them after all.

“I’m sorry I waited this long, I wanted to be sure that we both wanted this.” He was talking about… what was he talking about?

Oh. _Oh._

He was handsome, strong, and so brave and honorable that it bordered on stupidity. She was becoming fond of him. But not so much. He was King in the North, she was the Dragon Queen, and as Tyrion would say, he was a good match for her, unlike Daario the Tyroshi sellsword, or Ser Jorah the disgraced Knight. It was why she had left behind Daario wasn’t it? To be free to make political matches that would strengthen her control over the Seven Kingdoms. It was clear that the North would give her the most trouble and following them would be the Vale. A match between them would make sure both Kingdoms fell in line. She ought to relish this opportunity and take it without hesitation.

And yet, all she could think about was how she could turn him down right now while also making sure that he would not feel rejected so as not to jeopardize their alliance. She should have anticipated this. Even while returning from Eastwatch, Jon had taken her hand. She had allowed it for a moment, but when she pulled back, he hadn’t let go, not immediately. When he finally did, Daenerys had quickly excused herself and gone to check up on Jorah.

There was an attraction between her and Jon, at least from his side. She on the other hand, felt a sort familiarity between them. As if she knew from somewhere, and yet she had never met him before. It confused her, for she _knew_ there was something about him that called to her on some level, but she wasn’t sure if it was love.

“You look quite beautiful in candle light.” His earnest words brought her out of her musings.

Not wanting to encourage him further, she settled for a simple ‘thank you.’ “Would you like some wine Lord Snow?”

“I’ve had plenty tonight.”

That explained his brazenness.

Thankfully before anything else can happen, there is a knock on her door. A rather urgent one, giving her the perfect excuse to ignore him. She hoped it was some news that would justify her wanting solitude.

“Your Grace, there is something that you must-” Tyrion’s frantic rant was cut off by Varys who was just a step behind him.

“Oh, good evening Lord Snow, we were not aware that you would be here.” He pushed Tyrion into the room and stepped inside as well closing the door behind him. Daenerys backed away without protest, allowing them to come in. Something in their respective looks bothered her.

“I, uh..”

“Might want to talk to Ser Davos immediately.” Tyrion finished for him.

Jon looked confused, Daenerys asked them why they were here.

Varys removed his hands form his sleeves and handed her a small scroll. “The Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell wishes you a pleasant journey and eagerly awaits your arrival.”

She took it but instead of reading it turned to Jon.

Jon was openly scowling at them, “Your joke is hardly amusing. I’m the Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell.”

Tyrion answered him, looking at him suspiciously. “This is why I suggest you speak to Ser Davos immediately and see if there is any message for you. It would seem your half-brother has decided to claim his rights as a trueborn son.”

The conversation was now lost on Daenerys. “What does that mean?”

Varys answered, “It means that Lord Snow is no longer the leader of the North. Rickon Stark is. And he is waiting for us at Winterfell.”

She watched as Jon abruptly turned red, and mumbling an ‘excuse me’ stalked out of her rooms to probably look for Ser Davos.

Before she could even breath a sigh of relief at narrowly avoiding that, Tyrion whirled on her.

“Did you fuck him?”

“What?! Tyrion!” She was mortified at her own sputtering.

Tyrion leaned forward and cocked an eyebrow, “Did you?”

“No.” She said with indignation.

“Did you kiss him?”

“No,” She was pleased that her voice had now moved on to sounding dignified, “Though I imagine he wanted to.”

“Well, if he asks again, say that you don’t want to take things too fast.”

Varys cut in, “Your Grace, I cannot be sure of the reason, but there seems to be some kind of power struggle going on among the Stark siblings. Do you remember I told you about Petyr Baelish? Well, while their King was here, the others had him executed. From the timing of the letter I can only conclude that as soon as they received word that Jon Snow had bent the knee, his brother Rickon took over his titles. But that boy just turned thirteen. It’s clear Lady Sansa is the one behind it.”

Tyrion was standing in front of the porthole now. “The day Joffrey was poisoned, Sansa disappeared. Since then, she’s been with Petyr Baelish and then Ramsay Bolton. They’re both dead now.” He turned to her, “When I knew her, she was an innocent girl who had been thrown in a lion’s den and was barely keeping her head above the water. Now, it seems as if she’s embodied her house sigil. For your benefit, we advise you, keep Jon Snow close, but not too close. At least until we can figure out what exactly is going on in that family.”

“I do see your reasoning, but just so you know, I wasn’t thinking of getting into bed with him so soon.” 

“It would be very cruel of you to do that so soon after Mormont.”

And for the third time that hour Daenerys was at a loss. “I beg your pardon?”

Varys rolled his eyes, “Come now, we’re not criticizing you. Not many people noticed, and we personally made sure that no one from Snow’s party is aware. You were not discreet, but fortunately Mormont slipped out early.”

Daenerys rubbed a hand over her eyes and sat down at the edge of her bed. She understood what they were referring to. “Look, I don’t know what you two have going on in your heads, but nothing happened between Jorah and me. We talked late into the night and I fell asleep in his rooms. That’s all.”

Tyrion suspiciously raised an eyebrow, “You spent the night with him, in his bed I assume, and nothing happened?”

She glared at him, forcing herself not to dwell on her less than chaste thoughts about her knight’s lips, “He took your advice and revealed his life’s history. I know quite a lot about Robert’s Rebellion, and have a vague idea about how I’m going to deal with the Northerners when I get there. Also, when I fell asleep, he was lying on top of the furs while I was buried under them. Knowing him, he probably spent the night in a chair or on the rug perhaps.”

She watched them share a short look then nod to her.

Tyrion spoke, “It makes sense I suppose. Mormont would have been smiling brighter than the sun had you actually slept with him.”

He could not duck the pillow Daenerys threw at him. Shockingly, Varys smiled at their ensuing pillow war.

* * *

Grey Worm had not understood a lot of things that day, his common tongue was not so good back then.

But he had understood some things. Jorah the Andal had betrayed their Queen. How Jorah the Andal, the man who considered Daenerys Stormborn more precious than his own life could do something like that was beyond his understanding. But he was an Unsullied- it was not his job to understand, only to follow orders.

Yet, Jorah the Andal had taught him that he was a man as well. A man who could _feel_. A man who could _think_ for himself. A man who could be _alive_. This one is alive, he had told Jorah the Andal, only to be told that there was a difference between _living_ and being _alive_.

He remembered stepping forward along with Ser Barristan to stop him from coming near the Queen. He also remembered, for the first time in his life, not wanting to follow the orders he was given. How could he kill Jorah the Andal? Jorah the Andal was the person he went to when he had seen Missandei for too long in the river. Jorah the Andal was the person who told him to apologize to her and taught him how to say ‘sorry’. He taught him the word precious. He told him it was alright, even good if he liked someone more than he liked others. He kept telling him that feeling was good, because it meant he was truly free from the masters’ influence. 

If given the order, Grey Worm would have killed Jorah the Andal, but given the choice, he might not have done it.

After Jorah the Andal was gone, everything was different. For many days the Queen was very sad. Grey Worm did not understand why the Queen had been so angry with him in the Great Chamber but so sad afterwards. When he asked Missandei, she told him that betrayal from friends hurt the most. He did not understand what a friend was, nor did he understand how Jorah the Andal could have hurt her when he had not been allowed to touch her. He did not understand how the Queen be so angry to threaten to kill Jorah the Andal and then be too unhappy to even eat or sleep when he was gone. He tried to ask, but Missandei told him it was not their place to question it.

One problem Grey Worm faced was that there was no one to answer all his questions. Ser Barristan had taken over his training in military tactics and commanding. He would answer Grey Worm’s questions only if they were related to what he was teaching. Anything else was not important. When Grey Worm tried to ask, Ser Barristan told him that he asked too many questions.

Jorah the Andal had never said that. Jorah the Andal had said that he would answer a thousand questions if Grey Worm had that many questions, even if he would wake him in the middle of the night to ask. Ser Barristan was very angry when Grey Worm told him that. After that, Grey Worm stopped talking about Jorah the Andal. But sometimes, he would still think about Jorah the Andal who had taught him many things beyond military knowledge.

When Jorah the Andal came back, he was angry at him. He refused to even look at him. Because Missandei had told him, when he was injured and forced to lie in bed all day, that he had come back once before but the Queen had sent him away again. Grey Worm understood that the Queen would not let him stay. Then Daario told him that Jorah the Andal had saved the Queen’s life and she might let him stay this time.

She did not. She _could_ not. Greyscale would kill him, so she had let him go to find a place to die. That was when Grey Worm understood how the Queen could be angry at him when he was in front of her and sad when he was gone. Because Grey Worm had been angry at him, but the knowledge that he would die, made him feel sad.

His last words for Jorah the Andal were, “He should not be here.” And that bothered him because by then, Tyrion had taught him something other than ‘joke’. Tyrion had said that Varys was his friend, and then explained what a friend was. That was when Grey Worm realized that Jorah the Andal was his friend.

He was ready to march all the Unsullied to save him, until he found out that Greyscale was not a person. Ser Barristan, all the other Unsullied, Daario Naharis and his Second Sons, and even the Dothraki were all his brothers in arms. But Jorah the Andal was his friend, perhaps the first one he had made. He thought, his friend was not coming back again, and he had done nothing to help him.

But his friend was stubborn. His friend came back one more time. Jorah the Andal was cured, he was back in their Queen’s service, he was again his commander, and he was his friend who helped him find flowers in the snow for Missandei of Naath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received about half a dozen comments requesting that I not put in Boatsex.... and unlike D&D I do not disrespect my audience.  
> Hope you folks enjoyed it!
> 
> Also, the end of this chapter refers to GW and Jbear finding flowers in the snow for Missandei. That tale is told in a one-shot from Jorah's perspective in 'Winter Roses', which at the moment is the next work in the series. 
> 
> The overwhelming response I received for 'Winter Roses' was what prompted me to write this fix-it.  
> Go read it if you haven't already!


	9. Welcome To Winterfell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Journey to the North is finally over and everyone has arrived at Winterfell.  
> The Dragon Queen is welcomed, the White Wolf is back with his pack, and Ser Bear meets someone after so very long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp... it was very emotional writing this chapter, because as I wrote it, I got extremely salty and bitter about d&d not giving us anything like it.
> 
> Hope you guys like it, and it makes for whatever we could not have.

From what he had seen the Starks were close knit, and yet, the youngest brother had assumed his elder brother’s titles and declared himself the Warden of the North for the sole reason that he was trueborn. But perhaps there was more than that. Old Philip had hinted that it could be in retaliation of his brother’s decision to give up the Northern crown.

The discrimination between trueborn and bastard born children still bothered Clancey. Although, considering his own unfortunate birth, it was hardly surprising. He was born of rape, the bastard son of a wildling. He should have died when his mother hung herself, the shame too great for her to bear. He didn’t though. He survived by stealing scraps from wherever he could find, until one day a merchant caught him trying to slink away with an apple fallen from his crate.

That was the day of his salvation. The young and newly appointed Lord of Bear Island was kind. He said that taking a hungry boy’s hand for stealing food was no justice, but making sure he never went hungry was. And so, he was employed as the stable boy. Though he was given food, clothes and a roof to sleep under, he was not treated kindly by the others, everyone knowing who’s seed he came from. The young lord, with his family’s support, welcomed him inside, and made him his personal steward. From there, he went on to become his squire in battle and eventually, a knight.

The wildling bastard who had no name but Snow, was reviled by the entire island. But everyone respected Ser Clancey of Bear Island, the Master at Arms of House Mormont and the personal guard for their little Lady. It amused him to no end that the present lady, nor any of her sisters had any known father.

Speaking of the little lady, she was once again exceeding his expectations in concealing her true emotions. Ever since news of their exiled Lord and her cousin had come, she had been more tightly strung than ever. Even now, standing just behind her, he could sense the tension radiating out of her body. Very slowly, he placed his hands on her shoulders. She stiffened and sharply turned her head to look at him. He did not say anything, choosing to simply squeeze her shoulders. She took a deep breath and unclenched her jaw, turning her gaze forward to the gates of Winterfell.

He wondered briefly, if Ser Mormont would reclaim his Lordship. Officially pardoned, it was his by right. He hoped, that this matter would not cause undue conflict between his Lord and his little Lady, as Philip feared. Pride was, after all, quite strong in House Mormont.

* * *

Arya watched as Jon jumped down from his horse and went to Bran. After exchanging a few words, he saw her and came at her. They kept their greeting brief, silently agreeing to speak later. She would have preferred to greet him in private, but Rickon was insistent that she not go lurking somewhere, rather stand with them to display the unity of their house and the North. So instead, she had been with Sansa when the dragons had flown overhead. The illustrations in the books she had read did not do them justice at all.

She watched the Dragon Queen, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, as she approached, with undoubtedly, Ser Jorah Mormont at her side. The man looked Westerosi and was wearing armor underneath his winter coat. Who else could it be if not the man Lady Lyanna Mormont had so vehemently defended? She expected Lady Mormont to approach him, but instead the two seemed to ignore each other’s presence. Although, she supposed the bears were not fond of emotional displays.

When Daenerys came close enough, Rickon, dressed in his finest clothes, looking every inch a prince of winter, stepped forward.

He knelt, as the Queen kept a smile on her face and silently gestured for him to rise. Then he spoke loudly and clearly for everyone to hear, “I, Rickon of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, welcome you. Winterfell is yours, Your Grace.”

She smiled warmly at him, looking slightly amused and impressed at the same time. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Stark. It is an honor to meet you.” So far, Arya could see no lie in her face. But faces often hid deep secrets underneath.

For now, two faces had distracted Arya’s attention. Sandor Clegane and Gendry Waters.

* * *

Lyanna recognized him. She hadn’t expected to, thinking that the east had probably removed all traces of who he was. He looked much as he did in the sole clear memory she had of him. A bit greyer in hair, a bit more lined in his face, but his smile was the same, and his eyes just as bright. Her hand found its way to the knife. She wondered if he even remembered making it for her. As she stared at him, she wondered if he would know who she is.

She watched Rickon kneel and then rise. She quietly listened as Lady Sansa wisely ignored the southern Queen’s remark on her beauty and suggested she and her party freshen up and then meet later in the Great Hall. She observed Jorah as he silently looked around. Eventually, his gaze halted on something above her head. Ser Clancey. He looked at his former squire with a question in his eyes and a twitch of his lips, and she had to use all of her self-control to not turn around and see how her sworn knight had reacted. Then he was looking at her, with an odd look, slightly dazed, both disbelieving and searching at once.

They remained standing while everyone began moving inside, Lady Sansa subtly dragging Jon Snow to the council chamber where he was to give a full accounting to the northerners while Maester Wolkan and few others led the Targaryen Queen and her advisors inside to their allotted chambers. He was quite close now, a few more steps and she could each out and touch him. His head was inclined towards her, and his hands remained at his side, his right fist clenching and unclenching of its own accord.

She decided to break the silence, and of all the things she could have said to greet him, she chose the worst statement possible. Her words had him looking disappointed and ashamed for a moment. He opened his mouth and closed it without speaking, instead frowning lightly. While shuffling his feet, he lifted his eyes to Ser Clancey, who instead of responding to him, decided to usher her away to the northern council meeting.

Her words to him, “You will be pleased to know that we have not had any poachers on Bear Island for years.”

* * *

The council meeting was tense to say the least. Jon and Ser Davos patiently related all that had happened since their leaving for Dragonstone. The mood of the room went from angry to intrigued, to exasperated, to disbelieving to annoyance again. Lyanna Mormont in particular had chewed and spit him out after hearing about Cormac’s death. She seemed to be in a horrible mood, and Jon wondered if it had something to do with her cousin. He hoped she would be kinder to her kin than she was to him.

Jon was at the edge of his tolerance as well. “I told you we needed allies. We have at best 10,000 men women and youngsters who can fight. Out of them, over half learnt to fight only recently. We cannot win on our own!”

“That’s not the issue here Jon-” Sansa began.

“Then what is?” Jon cut her off.

“The issue is that you decided to bend the knee without consulting anyone. Not even Ser Davos. Especially when you didn’t have to.” Sansa said coldly.

“What do you mean I didn’t have to? Of course, I had to.”

She shook her head while Rickon silenced the grumbling of the Lords by slightly raising one hand. This was another thing that was unexpectedly annoying Jon. Rickon, or rather Lord Stark, was sitting at the head of the round table with Sansa and Arya on each side with most of the Lords and Ladies behind them while he and Ser Davos were seated at the other end, a bit closer to the wall than usual, as if they were criminals on trial. 

“No, Jon. You didn’t. Daenerys had said she would fight against the Night King after he killed her dragon, you bent the knee after that.”

Once again the Lords and Ladies glared angrily at him. Jon leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand on his brow to stave off an inevitable headache.

“Alliances go both ways. If she’s bringing her armies here, she should get something in return. The Wights can’t swim, she and the people who serve her would have been safe on Dragonstone. She chose to come here, to the North, to fight alongside us while putting her own war with Cersei on hold. It doesn’t matter what her reasons are. Bending the knee was the right decision. It’s what father would have done. Besides, how else was I to make sure she’d keep her word?”

Sansa looked like she was going to say something, but Rickon put a hand on her arm and shook his head. Sansa covered his hand with hers while he turned to Arya who nodded. Jon wondered what had happened while he was gone. Rickon twisted in his chair.

“Anything to add Bran?”

Bran tilted his head slightly, looking lost in thought. “Daenerys has gone back on her word several times.”

Gasps and shouts went around the room, while Ser Davos and Jon stared at each other in shock.

“You can’t trust the Mad King’s daughter!”

“The dragons fear no Gods, why would they keep their promises?”

Rickon let go of Sansa’s hand and slammed his fist on the table, shouting, “Silence!” Once everyone was quiet, he nodded to Bran. “Go on Bran, we’re listening.”

Bran had remained unperturbed throughout, Jon wondered what had happened to his brother. “She promised to burn down the city of Qarth once her dragons were grown when the city’s ruling council insulted her people and went back on their promise of refuge. She had said she would kill every former slave master there was in Yunkai. She said she would return the city of Meeren to dust if the Sons of Harpy did not stop rebelling. She swore to behead one of her advisors if he ever returned, yet she never did any of those things, in spite of having multiple chances.”

Rickon looked confused, and turned to Arya. Arya was frowning as well, “She promised, several times, that she would slaughter people and destroy entire cities, but she never actually did it? Is that what you’re telling us Bran?”

“Essentially, yes. Her advisors usually talk her down from any such plans when her temper rises. From what I have seen, she listens to reason if you can present it to her.”

Jon sat up straighter, letting out a breath of relief. “Well, then it’s settled. I made the right decision.”

“One has nothing to do with the other.” Sansa snapped at him.

“Her enemies are the Night King and Cersei. Last I checked, they were our enemies as well, and the enemy of my enemy is my friend. Or am I wrong in that?”

Rickon stood up. “That’s enough. We’ve already welcomed her and I’ve given her Winterfell. We are not like the Freys. We shall not break the laws of hospitality, and right now we have a war to prepare for. Everyone please go seat yourselves in the Great Hall, my siblings and I will join you shortly along with… Her Grace.”

Jon kept Ser Davos from going, and waited while everyone else left. Arya moved to stand in the middle of the room in equal distance between him and Sansa, whereas Rickon was standing near the window, looking out. 

“She’s rather beautiful isn’t she?” Sansa spoke softly to him.

Jon smiled slightly and nodded, “Aye. You are as well, you know.”

“Is that why you bent the knee? Because you fell in love with her?”

Jon’s smile faded, Ygritte coming unbidden into his thoughts. “Love is the death of duty.” He softly spoke, remembering old maester Aemon. He lifted his head and looked straight at Sansa, unwavering, unyielding. “I chose duty over love before, and I don’t regret it. I did whatever I did for the good of the North and our family and given the chance I’d do it all over again.”

“We believe you Jon.” Arya finally deigned to speak.

“Do you? You sent a raven directly to Daenerys telling her I no longer had any authority. Do you realize how insulting it was when _her_ advisors told me Rickon took over and I was once again nothing but the bastard of Winterfell?”

Rickon closed her eyes and took a deep breath, “Insulting you was never our intention.” Sansa continued, “It was either that or letting the Lords mutiny against you. Would you rather they kill you and then all of us or would you rather lose your official titles, which would have anyways passed on to Rickon?”

Before Jon could answer, Arya cut in. “And you’re not just the bastard of Winterfell, the armies are still under your command, and you haven’t quite lost the respect of the North. They’re just a bit angry. We won’t be discounting your opinion either. Sansa is just keeping an eye out for betrayals and Rickon only makes decisions after listening to everyone. It was him who convinced the Lords to give you a chance to return and explain why you bent the knee. We know you’re just trying to protect the family. It’s what we all are trying to do.”

Ser Davos patted Jon on the back, “Chin up. C’mon now, there’s no point in fighting amongst yourselves. Isn’t there a saying, the pack is stronger than the lone wolf?”

With that, the wolves of Winterfell looked at each other and smiled.

* * *

“What do dragons eat anyway?”

“Whatever they want.”

When Lady Sansa turned to look at Daenerys with a mildly horrified expression, Jorah felt his heart stop. He had thought that being so close in age and having gone through similar difficulties, the two women would find common ground. But instead he seemed to witnessing something that could only be called a cat fight. Although, in truth, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Daenerys was never one to let an insult slide, and it seemed Lady Stark was no more willing to bend than her mother. He hoped Tyrion had a plan in mind to ensure that Sansa Stark and Daenerys would not go at each other’s throats any more than they already had.

He cleared his throat. They all turned to him.

“The dragons’ feeding is taken care of Lady Stark, but it would be prudent to advise the people to not go near them. They do not attack unprovoked, but neither are they welcoming to strangers.”

“Like us stubborn northerners.” Rickon chuckled from his seat next to Daenerys. Seeing their young Lord joke around seemed to relax most of the Stark bannermen.

Daenerys, quite convincingly, pretended to be surprised at that, “I must disagree, Lord Stark. I’ve felt quite welcomed so far, although considering the last person to welcome me was Cersei Lannister…” She trailed off. Her attempt at levity fell flat, but at least she had tried.

She straightened in her seat, if such a thing was possible. “Your concerns about food are reasonable Lady Sansa, which is why I am pleased to inform you that the armies of the Reach, who can be expected to arrive by the end of the week, will be carrying as much food, wine and medicine as possible with them to add to Winterfell’s stores. My armies too have brought enough for all of us for at least two months. If you still believe it to be less, do let me know so I can have resources ordered from Meeren. Though, they might take some time to arrive.” 

Lady Sansa looked at Daenerys with pursed lips and lightly furrowed brow, as if she was trying to work out just how sincere she was. “That is very kind of you, Your Grace.”

Daenerys waved her off with a smile. “Are there any other concerns that need to be addressed?”

A few grumblings about the shortage of armor and furs, which were quickly dealt with, the allotment of guard duties to the Unsullied were made, everyone unanimously and nonverbally agreed on leaving the Dothraki alone. There were loud protests on the news of the arrival of the Lannister armies but the news of Howland Reed’s arrival distracted everyone. Jorah recalled that Howland Reed had chosen to remain at Greywater Watch after returning from Dorne with Ned Stark. Judging by everyone’s reactions, he gathered that the Lord of the crannogmen had not emerged since then.

Lord Cerwyn questioned calling him. “The Young Wolf did not call him, what use is the small man?”

Rickon Stark answered. “Judge a man’s stature by his worth, not height, Lord Cerwyn. Lord Reed may not have left Greywater Watch, but he sent his children to aid Bran and I.”

Bran Stark perked up at his name. “Indeed. His son, Jojen, gave his life for mine. His daughter, Meera, brought me back to Winterfell. And Robb did call upon Lord Reed, just as our father did. Only, the Red Wedding happened before the plan could be implemented.”

 _Interesting,_ thought Jorah. Northern politics was not much changed from what he remembered. People grumbled, but everyone quieted down at the howling of the wolves. The nobles of the North were proud, and did not bend to even the wolves unless the fangs had been shown. It was clear all of them were respected, even the youngest Rickon, who was perhaps the same age as Lyanna.

Speaking of Lyanna, as the assembly was dispersed, he whispered to Missandei that he had some personal matters to take care of and went after his little cousin.

_You will be pleased to know we have not had any poachers on Bear Island in recent years._

The words were said without any hint of malice, instead she had sounded as if she truly believed the news would please him. And for a moment, he could swear he saw her look a bit uncertain when he failed to reply. That alone gave him hope. Nothing prolonged a man’s suffering like hope. As long as there was hope, even a sliver of it as thin as a single thread of a spider’s web, a man could go on.

He needed to know for certain, if he was still welcome or not. To everyone else, she was the Lady of Bear Island, but to him, she had always been and always would be little Anna.

After his mother had died, his father was distant, and he had no siblings of his own. But he had an aunt who never refused him anything, and some years later, cousins who adored him from the first. When his father left to take the Black when he was barely eighteen, Maege and her daughters were the only family he needed.

Having children is taxing on a woman, and each childbirth more difficult than the last. When Lyanna had been born, Maege had not been capable of little more than naming her before handing her over to the wet nurses while she rested. For many weeks, Maege had remained bedbound, while the rest of the house had busied themselves in taking care of their youngest member.

Holding Lyanna had somehow made it known deep in his heart that he would not have children of his own, but it mattered not, for the younger of Maege’s daughters were as good as his own, Lyanna in particular. He had spent countless nights while she was young just holding the fussy babe and walking around the silent halls of their keep, occasionally humming some tune or the other.

Even if she closed the door, if nothing else, he would have those memories to hold on to.

“Lady Mormont, I wish to speak with you. In private.” He added to Clancey.

“This room is empty; you may use it.” Lyanna hadn’t noticed Maester Philip standing in the corridor so far. He was looking at her cousin with slight amusement, while holding the door open for her.

Without argument, Jorah went to follow his suggestion, but just before entering, he hesitated, glancing at Maester Philip. Maester Philip did not give him any response except to pointedly turn his gaze to her. The implication was clear. Earlier, by not answering his silent question, Ser Clancey had done the same. They had both established that the final decision of treating him as a member of their house depended on her alone.

As she moved to enter behind him, Maester Philip gently placed a hand on her head and gestured to the knife at her waist. Once again, the message was clear. Even if the Jorah in front of her had changed in the East, there would always be a part of the one who loved her and their family in her knife.

He turned away from the window to face her when the door closed, but made no move to approach.

“I am glad to know that poachers have not been an issue for the Island recently.”

“Mother said they stopped coming soon after you-” She cut herself off. At this point Lyanna was ready to swallow her own tongue.

“After I left and the news of my crime spread?” He didn’t deny it.

But there was more to the story. The poachers were actually escaped slaves from a ship passing through. The slaver he had ‘sold’ them to was the ship’s captain who had come ashore to look for them. Rather than seizing the ship and executing the poachers as was the law, he returned them to the captain in exchange for gold which was, as Garrow had claimed, agreed on by both sides to be compensation for the trouble those men had caused. The whole deal hadn’t been in accordance to the law, but it hadn’t strictly been against it either.

Not that any of it made a difference to Ned Stark. But it did to the Bear Islanders. His habit of bending the law when it came to punishing people had spared more than a few hands and heads, it was hardly surprising to them that he chose to accept gold in recompence rather than executing someone. It was even less shocking for those close to him when you factored in the daily fights he had with his wife over coin.

She told him all that, letting him know that she wasn’t ignorant of what had happened.

He stood there, silently frowning, looking somewhere over her shoulder. “What I did was wrong, there is no doubt about it. I deserved that exile.”

“You were pardoned by the King and his Hand, Ned Stark.”

His frown went deeper as did the lines appearing on his forehead. “Ned Stark had nothing to do with it. I obtained that Royal Pardon from Robert Baratheon by doing something that is even more shameful than what led to my exile. I never claimed it, my copy was turned to ash the very day I received it.”

Not knowing what else to say, Lyanna began to feel nervous. She started fiddling with the knife.

“That knife…” He said softly, coming closer to her.

She looked at him then the knife again. She held it open in her hand. “I found it in a crate filled with wooden carvings.” Not a lie, but not the full truth either. She waited for him to tell her that he had carved the handle himself, had the hunting blade specially designed for her. He didn’t.

Instead, he removed his hands from where they were folded behind his back, twisting the ring on his finger. “Do you like it?”

She inhaled deeply, suddenly feeling wrong-footed by his earnest question. He was tactically asking for approval. It was proof enough that he did remember.

“I do. It’s a good knife.” She said, trying to keep her voice matter of fact.

And yet, his smile was brighter than the sun.

“I’m glad to hear it. Everyone needs a good knife.” And that was it. He gave her a short bow and took his leave.

She remained in the room, utterly confused, when finally, Maester Philip and Ser Clancey came in and asked her what had happened. She narrated the incident woodenly. “I don’t understand, it was the perfect opportunity to speak further, not as strangers, but as family. Instead, he walked away.”

Maester Philip looked at her sadly. “My Lady, in your hand, you hold something he made for you out of love. It would seem, that is enough for him. If you want more, you need to open the gate and drag him inside.”

So be it then. Later that evening, when most people had retired to their own chambers, she managed to slip past Ser Clancey and found herself at his door. By then, she had replayed their interactions several times in her mind and had found herself inexplicably angry. The moment he opened the door, she brushed past him, stepping inside without his invitation, and turned, landing a strong kick to his shin.

He didn’t flinch. It made her angrier.

She refused to look up at his face. “One does not just walk away from the Lady of their House.”

Another kick. Still he did not flinch.

“Dacey would have smashed your head with her Morningstar if you behaved that way with her.” This time she kicked his other leg. She kept her gaze fixed on his boots. She was so angry at him. Why should she open the gate and drag him inside? He was a Mormont; their words were _‘Here We Stand’._ The ‘We’ referred first to their family, then to their liege and fellow bannermen, and went on to include their brothers or sisters in arms and so on to the whole North.

“Do you know how much they all missed you? Do you have any idea how many times I heard the same stories about you?” How _dare_ he! How dare he think he could just walk away from his family without any just cause?

Another kick, harder this time. He sidestepped and she missed, losing her balance. Next thing she knew, her face was buried in his stomach as he held her there. She half-heartedly tried to struggle, but it was difficult to push away his arms when she couldn’t see them out of the tears in her eyes.

_Tears._

The realization that somewhere in the middle of her angry tirade, tears had started streaming down her face broke something inside her. Lyanna _never_ cried. Not when she received ravens telling her what had happened on the mainland, not when her prayers for her sisters’ and mother’s safe return went unanswered, not when she was forced to send her men to their deaths in battle.

But right now, held by a cousin she hardly remembered, she was sobbing.

He picked her up with ridiculous ease and settled her in his lap as he sat down, his arms holding her in place while she wrapped her own around his neck and buried her face in the crook of his neck. He was just as she remembered, with large hands and a scratchy beard. 

He smoothed her hair, and spoke softly near her ear, “I’m so sorry that I wasn’t here. That I couldn’t protect them.” She didn't say anything, just tightened her hold on him, hoping he would understand that she didn't blame him.

It didn’t take long for her tears to stop and her breathing to return to normal. There was something calming about him, she had noticed it earlier as well. She pulled away slightly from his chest and finally looked at him. There were tears in his eyes as well, as he wiped her cheeks. She shifted and took his hand in her own. “Why didn’t you come home earlier?”

He swallowed once, and cleared his throat, “I thought I was dead to you all.”

She ought to have slapped him. Instead she sighed, exasperated, and once gain buried her face in his shoulder. “You’re a fool Jorah Mormont.”

He kissed her forehead and smiled, “Aye. I’ve been told several times.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, family angst. Yup, BAMF Lyanna Mormont is also human. 
> 
> Do comment and let me know what you think and if there is something else we were robbed of that you would like to see.  
> If it fits with the story line, I promise to write it, if not, there's always the possibility of deleted or extra scenes.


	10. Complicated Relations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Daenerys is occupied with the Starks, Lyanna is making her own plans and someone from the Reach has arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to move the plot forward.... everyone is coming together....

Lyanna had fallen asleep in his arms. It reminded Jorah of when she was little, not that she was much grown even now. He quietly counted, and realized that her thirteenth nameday was barely two months away. It had been exactly ten years since he’d last held her like this.

And what a decade it had been.

He grabbed his cloak and covered her with it while adjusting his grip. She was still a girl and he was her family; despite that it would not be appropriate for her to spend the night in his room. Especially not when there were so many people present to remark upon it. He had just entered the main corridor when he saw Clancey and Maester Philip engaged in a heated discussion. Philip seemed to be scolding Clancey for something.

They rushed towards him the moment they saw him.

Philip immediately made to check Lyanna for injuries, “Is she alright? What happened?”

“Calm down Maester. She just sleeping. Now where’s her room so I can put her to bed?”

They shared a look of relief before leading him away. Unfortunately, Philip’s fussing and Clancey’s incessant questions had woken her and by the time Jorah had managed to remove her boots and lay her on the bed, she had decided that sitting up and playing twenty questions with him was the best option.

“When should we declare you as the Lord?”

“Never. You can keep it. I’m a Queensguard, I can’t hold any lands even if I wanted to, which I don’t.”

She frowned, “Your Queen isn’t on the Iron Throne yet, nor do you wear a white cloak.”

He sat down at the foot of her bed. “Soon enough. When it happens, I shall formally abdicate in your favor. Does that satisfy you?”

She glared at Philip then muttered just loud enough for him to hear. “I never said I wanted the Lordship.”

He hadn’t considered that. “Any particular reason?” He asked, trying to keep his tone conversational.

She hesitated, “It’s quite the hassle. And besides,” she pointed to Philip and Clancey, “they’re the ones who actually run the island.”

Philip answered, “We only assist, and so far you have performed admirably.” Clancey expressed his agreement.

He lightly tapped her knee, “I’ll only ever be a raven away.”

She narrowed her eyes at him in annoyance, then went on to undo her braid and letting her hair fall freely. It surprised him how much she looked like a younger Dacey. He told her so. The answering smile she gave him was small and bittersweet.

He got her to lie down again. As he was adjusting her blankets and furs around her, she made a request.

“What story will you be telling me?”

He chuckled, “Which one would you like to hear little Anna?”

“I imagine you have plenty interesting stories. You left as a Northern Knight and have returned ten years later at the head of a Dothraki hoard. It has to be an interesting tale.”

Ah, she was digging for information into his activities of the past decade. _Clever little thing._ He decided to play along.

“Well, yes, I suppose that would make for an interesting story. It starts with an exiled knight attending the Dothraki wedding of the last princess of a fallen dynasty. There is travel, secrets, an assassination attempt or two, some fighting, promises to restore what was lost, then trickery from a vengeful witch, ending in death and leaving everyone stranded in the endless Red Waste.”

She is staring intently at him now, far more intrigued than she expected to be.

He lowers his voice, “That, is when the dragons emerge under a bleeding star.”

“The Red Comet that was seen after Ned Stark was executed and Jayden was born?”

He blinked, faltering for a moment. He hadn’t known when exactly Ned Stark was executed. He could feel Clancey’s and Philip’s curious eyes on the back of his head, both seated next to the fire, Clancey in particular adamant on keeping an eye on Lyanna after she slipped past him once. Jorah briefly wondered what exactly did they all think he was doing all those years.

He opened his mouth to confirm her conclusion, when something struck him. “Who’s Jayden?”

For an instant, everything stilled in the room. No one even breathed and Jorah felt a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. Lyanna sat up. “You don’t know.” It was not a question. “Ally had a son. He was almost two when she took him with her on a visit to Deepwood Motte. Soon after, Yara Greyjoy laid siege. She and Ellen were already there, and Jory later joined them with reinforcements.”

Jorah knew the rest, “They drove away the kraken eventually, and the Glovers confirmed that they left for Bear Island, but they haven’t returned yet. Cormac told me that they were considered lost at sea. He never said anything about Ally’s boy…” Jayden Mormont. He wished he could have met him.

The mood was now melancholy, and Lyanna did not object or resist when Jorah tucked her in and promised to share the long tale of his travels in the morning.

* * *

The armies of the Reach had arrived sooner than expected. A party consisting of Lord Dickon Tarly and few other Lords had arrived in Winterfell, riding hard on the Kingsroad, ahead of majority of the army to ensure that the roads were safe and they would be welcomed in the heart of the North. The rest would soon be trickling in, the cavalry with carts and wagons containing supplies were making steady progress and would arrive the next day, whereas the infantry would take another two days. They had been escorted into Winterfell by Stark guards and the Unsullied sentinels. Rickon Stark stood beside Daenerys as they waited to welcome the Southern Army.

She already had Jon’s support and of Jon’s sisters, Lady Sansa was hostile but not openly so, while Lady Arya was a silent shadow. She didn’t know what to make of his crippled brother Bran. Tyrion had advised her to ignore them for the time being and focus on befriending the youngest Stark. Even if it was his siblings advising him, as the able-bodied trueborn son of Ned Stark, at the end of the day all the power resided with him by law.

She didn’t have a problem with following that request, she was truly impressed by Rickon Stark. He was young, but had wisdom gained through adversity. He was temperamental from what she had heard but was quick to smile. “Lord Stark, I wish to give no offense but I have observed something about you.” She whispered quietly.

Rickon straightened next to her, he was almost as tall as she was. “I have a thick skin, Your Grace. Please, speak freely.”

“I have noticed that you do not read nor write anything, instead letting your sister, Lady Sansa read it out to you, and then you dictate your response to her.”

He smiled but it did not reach his eyes. “My education suffered when I was on the run. I know the letters and can count well enough, but not much else. I am still learning.”

She could sympathize with his interrupted schooling. She herself had been sorely lacking in her knowledge of historical events of Westeros, Viserys only telling her the glory tales of their ancestors leaving out anything that did not paint House Targaryen in a good light. Until Ser Jorah had gifted her books and then told many tales outside of them. Whatever he had missed, particularly a detailed history of her family and interhouse politics, was covered by Ser Barristan and Tyrion respectively. 

She nodded, “I understand. During my exile, my own education was… interrupted at best. At your age I couldn’t even count till twenty, but I could recite all the details of Aegon’s conquest.”

He smiled genuinely, looking a bit mischievous, more like a thirteen-year-old boy than Warden of the largest Kingdom in Westeros. “May I ask then, how you know how many there are in your army?”

She pretended to discreetly look around, then leaned in and whispered, “I don’t. I just pretend I do and have my advisors count instead.”

He laughed, “It’s a good thing we have educated advisors, eh?”

“Indeed.” She ignored Lady Sansa’s curious looks.

So far, he was the most welcoming of the Northerners. To her he had been nothing but courteous, a bit louder and gruffer than what could be expected from a nobleman, but his growing up in the wild instead of a castle explained most of it. Perhaps his lack of a formal education was what made him less susceptible to the inherent bias against outsiders. From what Varys had been able to gather, it was through his insistence that the Northerners hadn’t hung her already.

They stopped their childish giggling and stood proudly to welcome the Southern Lords. Dickon Tarly was the first to dismount from his horse and approach. Once he was near enough, he knelt and said, “The Lords of the Reach, a cavalry of 20,000 and an infantry of 30,000 are at your service, my Queen.”

The armies of the Reach had fought one battle against Stannis’s almost depleted army, losing less than a thousand men. Since then, they had preserved their strength. Keeping in mind her plan to win over the Reach armies, Drogon had only burnt Lannister men. Daenerys responded formally as was expected of her. “Arise Lord Tarly.” Once he was standing, she continued, “You honor me with your service.”

He replied, without missing a beat, “The honor is mine, your Grace.”

She inclined her head slightly in silent acknowledgment. Rickon took his cue, “I, Rickon of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and the Warden of the North, welcome you, Lord Tarly and your men to Winterfell. In the name of the Old Gods of the forest, I offer you Winterfell’s hospitality.”

Dickon gave him a half bow, “I, Dickon of House Tarly, Lord of Hornhill and Lord Paramount of the Reach, in the light of the Seven accept your offer of hospitality and hope that someday I might return it.”

For a moment there was silence as the three looked at each other in turn. Dickon seemed to be waiting for them, whereas Daenerys and Rickon were wondering if there was anything left. They glanced at their advisors, waiting for some cue.

Rickon was the first to shift, “Is that all?” He asked awkwardly. Daenerys could hear muffled laughter in the background. Tyrion was the first to rescue them, “Yes, that is all. Clearly you three need more education in such matters. You have completed the formalities. Now, let’s get the Lords of the Reach inside and warmed up, eh?”

* * *

“Ser Jorah… I don’t know what to say. You killed my father?”

“I want you to know, I never meant to kill him. I did give him the chance to yield. He refused. I’m sorry.”

“It’s true. We went to battle with the intention of capturing Randyll Tarly alive and then convincing him to submit. His death, was unintended and unfortunate.”

“Well… uh.. I suppose then… it’s not really your fault is it? You gave him the chance to yield, he chose to die.”

“Regardless, I am the one who held the blade that killed your father. I owe you a debt I cannot repay.”

Dickon had heard enough. He opened the door to the library and greeted them.

“Your Grace.”

Ser Jorah, Queen Daenerys and his brother, Sam all turned to look at him. Ser Jorah seemed guilty, while the Queen’s façade slipped for a moment and she looked panicked at the prospect of Randyll’s two sons, one of whom had saved the very man who’d killed their father from certain death, being in the same room. Dickon almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

“Lord Tarly, hello. Was there something you needed?”

“Yes, Your Grace. A moment alone with my brother, if you will.”

She seemed relieved, “Of course.” She turned to Sam, “Do let me know if there is anything I can do for you Samwell.”

Samwell nodded, a bit fumbling as always. She made to leave but behind her Ser Jorah hesitated.

By now Dickon had moved into the room and Daenerys was at the door, she called out to him, “Ser Jorah?”

He ignored her in favor of keeping his eyes locked with Dickon.

“I’m not plotting to kill you if that’s what you’re worried about.” Dickon said to him. He was conflicted about the man. He should hate him, for being the one who killed his father. But his father had not been a good man and had chosen death himself. 

“I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

They were standing face to face; it would be so easy to just pull out his sword and strike him down. But something stayed his hand. When he had told his mother, what had happened to his father, she had asked about the man who killed him. Then she had said something that he could still hear.

_He didn’t have to tell you himself; I don’t think anyone else would have in his place._

No, Ser Jorah did not have to confess. Not to him, not to Sam. But he did it anyway.

For that alone, Dickon stepped aside for him, and said, “You shouldn’t keep your Queen waiting, Ser.”

He did not. When they were gone and the door once again closed behind them, Dickon turned his attention to his brother. Sam had retreated to his corner with his books as usual.

Dickon slowly walked over to him. “Mother sends her love, and our sister has sent some dresses for Gilly.”

Sam’s quill remained hovering over his parchment, he wasn’t actually reading anything. “Thank you for informing me Lord Tarly. I shall write to them soon.”

Dickon sighed, “Sam… I’m sorry.”

This time Sam looked up at him. “You’re sorry?”

“I am. The way father treated you… it wasn’t right. But I never said or did anything, because-” He broke off and tried again. “Look, you can come back to Hornhill anytime you want, Gilly and little Sam are welcome too. You three will always have a home at Hornhill.”

Sam nodded, “Because? You didn’t do anything because?”

Dickon took a seat, pulling his cloak tighter around his body. “Father told me, how he got you to leave. How he would take you out hunting and leave you to die in the woods unless you abdicated in my favor. I was horrified. But more than that, I was scared. I thought that if he could do that to his firstborn son, then he could do the same to me as well if I disobeyed him.”

Sam laid a hand on his shoulder, “He’s gone now.”

“And I’m not keeping his ghost alive. You know, once, he caught me reading the Dance of Dragons. Spent an hour yelling at me that I’m just like my ‘useless, craven brother’ who can’t do anything more than read about other’s achievements.”

“I’m sorry about that.” Sam looked as if he blamed himself personally for their father’s temper.

“Don’t be. I felt horrible for weeks after he was done. I can’t imagine what you felt.” He leaned forward, looking earnestly at his brother, trying to convey what he was feeling. “Sam, I am so sorry that I never did anything to help you. I want you to know, I’ve always thought that you were better read than our Maester and I know now that you are a good and brave man.”

Sam sniffed twice, then pulled back and shuffled his books and parchment, “C’mon now… let’s not get to sentimental otherwise our father’s ghost might just come to haunt us. We’ve got plenty of dead coming for us already.”

The laughter of the Tarly men echoed in the library for quite some time.

* * *

Dinner in the Great Hall was, as usual, a tense affair. There had been a moment of lightheartedness when Rickon had, with her permission, raised a toast to welcome the armies of the Reach. No northerner was openly hostile but neither were they welcoming. She couldn’t help but feel annoyed at that. She had dragged all of her Dothraki riders and Unsullied, the armies of the Reach up here to this frozen land and brought enough resources to last through a five-year winter, possibly more, by Tyrion’s estimates, and still they looked at her with hatred and suspicion. As if they were just waiting for her to give the command to slaughter them all.

No, not slaughter. _Burn them all._

Well too bad for them, because she was not her father. She was not mad, she was not a tyrant, she was certainly not murderous even though Lady Sansa’s sidelong glances and frosty replies to all her attempts at conversation were setting her teeth on edge.

“I haven’t seen your sword yet.” Lady Arya jumped in while Lady Sansa once again failed to immediately answer her question about some feature of Winterfell.

Daenerys leaned forward a bit and centered all her attention to lady Arya while deliberately ignoring a now slightly annoyed looking Sansa Stark who was caught in the middle. “I don’t own a sword, Lady Arya.”

“I’m not a Lady and what do mean you don’t own a sword? Visenya Targaryen had a sword.”

“Dark Sister, I’m aware. I suppose you could say I’m more like Rhaenys. I fight on dragonback, there isn’t any need for me to use a sword. Not that I know how to use one.”

“You don’t know how to use a sword?” It would seem that this was a crime worse than being a Targaryen in the eyes of Jon’s youngest sister.

“I think I might manage stabbing someone with a dagger or short sword, but I’m afraid that all I’m capable of with weapons.”

Lady Sansa cut in, “So you allow your men to fight for you?”

Daenerys put on her sweetest smile, hoping that annoyance was not flashing in her eyes, “My men fight on the ground in the case of the Unsullied, and on horseback in the case of the Dothraki. I lead them, try my protect them and dispatch of their opponents from the sky. It’s quite effective.”

Arya Stark ignored her sister and continued, “I’ve seen illustrations of dragons in books, but they look better in real life.”

“Perhaps you would like to join me when I go out to meet them tomorrow?”

Her smile was proof enough to Daenerys that she had won over another of the Stark siblings. The only ones left were the crippled brother and this red-haired ice queen who was glaring daggers at her younger sister.

Some commotion a few tables over distracted her.

A loud-mouthed lord, who Rickon seated next to her identified as Robett Glover, had seated himself in front of Jorah with the full intention of picking a fight. Or so it seemed to her. 

“I’ve been hearing some interesting talk about you Lord Mormont.”

Jorah placidly took another sip of ale, “I’m not Lord Mormont, Ser will be just fine Lord Glover.”

Lord Glover waved him off, “Some of the boys were talking that you both freed slaves and became one yourself in the east. How much of it is true?”

The din of the hall reduced drastically as almost every person present turned their attention to the two men. Jorah’s hand holding the horn of ale was frozen halfway between the table and his mouth. Meanwhile Daenerys tried to catch Tyrion’s eye to see if he was the one who ran his mouth.

Before Jorah could answer, Grey Worm, seated next to him butted in.

“Ser Jorah, I and one other went into Yunkai at night and fought thirty guards; after defeating them, we opened the gates for Unsullied to enter and free the city.”

Missandei added her own two coppers, “Ser Jorah was also present during the liberation of Astapor and Meeren. He was the one who ripped off my collar. Who told you about it though?”

At this point Jorah was giving them both sidelong glances that could only mean ‘shut up’. He raised the horn in his hand and took a sip. Daenerys supposed that it had something to do with his inability to take praise. He never seemed to know how to respond to declarations of his worth or noble deeds, a trait he shared with Grey Worm much to Missandei’s displeasure.

Robett Glover nodded at them and asked Jorah, “What about the part of you being a slave?”

Jorah adjusted his collar, “It’s a long story-”

Tyrion saved him from answering this time, “The short of it was that while travelling from Volantis to Mereen, Mormont and myself were captured by slavers and ended up being sold to the fighting pits. Just so you know, the man sitting in front of you is the champion of Daznak’s pit.”

Another Lord, whom Rickon without any prompting identified to her and Lord Hornwood, called out, “Who’s pit?”

Tyrion called back, “Daznak’s pit, My Lord!”

Jorah raised his voice, “It’s the name of the Great Pit of Mereen, Hal- Lord Hornwood.”

Robett Glover ignored them all and fixed Jorah with his unrelenting gaze, while Rickon asked Daenerys if he should intervene. Before Daenerys could answer, Sansa told him to let the men sort it out amongst themselves.

Why did Tyrion think it was a good idea to seat her next to his former wife?

“A knight, depending on how highborn he is, can be ransomed for up to two or even three hundred gold coins when captured in battle. How much did you sell for in the east?”

There was some grumbling and murmurs among everyone and Daenerys almost stood up to give the brazen lord a piece of her mind, when a hand on her shoulder stopped her.

Varys whispered in her ear, “A Knight can defend his own honor, Your Grace.”

She slightly turned her head to look at him, and seeing his serious expression, acquiesced. For now. Seeing Jorah’s expression, for an instant she was certain he was going to strangle the man in front of him.

Instead he leaned back, drinking deeply from his mug, and said, “I had no armor and sword at the time, so no one truly believed I was a knight. I sold for 20 gold coins.”

“How the mighty have fallen.”

Jorah, smiled bitterly and raised his mug in mock toast.

The lord who had asked about the fighting pit’s name, Lord Hornwood spoke up.

“You were sentenced to death based on an accusation that you engaged in slavery. Now you come back, ten years later, having been both a slave, and a slave liberator. Forget the laws of men, the Gods themselves have given you justice, my friend.”

Another Lord raised his goblet to Jorah, Manderly, Rickon called him, “Turning back time is easier than regaining honor once lost. But you Mormonts have always been a stubborn lot. Good to have you back Ser.”

Robett Glover raised his goblet and smiled as well, this time seeming sincere, “Welcome home, Ser Jorah Mormont.”

It was then that Daenerys noticed that the ones paying close attention to what was happening and joining in were all close to Jorah’s age, greying at the edges, but with a silent strength in the way they held themselves. Older, but not old yet. The familiarity between them suddenly made much more sense. 

Jorah looked a bit stunned at the abrupt change in tone, but recovered quickly, “I don’t know if the Old Gods had anything to do with it, Halys, but what I do know is that she certainly did.” He gestured to Daenerys, and in the eyes of the few northerners looking at her, she found some sort of begrudging respect.

She in turn, put on her most benevolent Queenly smile, and said, “You’re too modest Ser.”

Dickon Tarly raised his goblet and said, “I could say the same for you, My Queen.” He was sitting with his brother Samwell, and Jon Snow.

There were again murmurs and this time she could hear a few of them clearly.

“Can we take his word?” “I knew his father, a tough man to impress, and you’ve seen their Lady rip the skin of grown men with just words. Those bears don’t fool around boy!”

“Not much like Aerys is she?” “Nah. More like Aegon the Fortunate.”

She looked to Varys and caught him smiling, hearing all the whispers. Was it her master of whisperers who’d orchestrated this?

The answer to that question was discovered by her council about an hour after dinner.

Jorah had interrupted the bickering between Varys and Tyrion about whose idea it was, stating that the culprit had confessed.

“It was Lyanna’s doing. She ordered Ser Clancey to tell his squire who was then encouraged to share it with Robett Glover’s squire.”

Jorah ran a hand through his hair. Seeing their bewildered expressions, he elaborated, “When the details of our armies was sent and read out, Robett had revealed the death sentence on my head. In my defense, Philip, revealed the Royal Pardon in my name. No one knew what the pardon was actually for, so there was a doubt about me or rather, about my character and trustworthiness. This morning I had given Lyanna a summary of my ‘Essoi adventures’ as she has dubbed them. Most northerners are religious followers of the Old Gods. She revealed the part of my being enslaved and my role in the liberation of Slaver’s bay correctly reasoning that it would lead to remarks about the Gods giving me justice and restore whatever goodwill I had in the years before my exile. She did it to earn my approval, which was unnecessary. The fact that it led to an increase in your own esteem among the northerners is an added advantage to you.”

Daenerys was impressed, “She’s quite clever.” Turning to Tyrion and Varys she added, “Far more than my Hand and Master of Whisperers are, I believe you ought to take lessons from her.”

Will wonders never cease? Varys actually looked offended.

Jorah sat down. “She had initially intended to reveal the reasons for the pardon, but seeing as they were neither honorable, nor did I ever claim the pardon myself, she discarded that idea.”

Tyrion looked thoughtful, “That girl has grown men trembling in fear and has made the two of us look like naïve children.” Pointing to Jorah he added, “Compared to her, you’re no more than a kitten.” 

Jorah laughed. He looked much younger and far more handsome when he laughed like that.

Any further conversation was interrupted by a knock on the door. Grey Worm opened it to reveal the subject of their conversation, Lyanna Mormont.

The little girl stepped inside, and said to Jorah, “Maester Philip went to your room to discuss an urgent matter.”

When he had left, Lyanna requested to speak with her in private. 

Once the room was empty, Daenerys asked, “Maester Philip isn’t looking for him for him, is he?”

“Maester Philip and Ser Clancey are looking for him hoping to find me. They are quite embarrassed and angry that I managed to evade them once more.”

“All that to speak with me in private? I’m flattered.”

Lyanna did not reply.

“Before you say anything, I want to thank you.”

Finally, some emotion from the child. Confusion.

“I once asked Ser Jorah what he prayed for. His answer was a single word, ‘Home’. Thank you for welcoming him, and doing what you did to restore his good name.”

There was a softness in her features now. She rocked back on her heels and mumbled to the floor, “I did my duty towards him as the Lady of our House.”

They both knew it was more than that.

She cleared her throat and stepped closer, “For a thousand years, even before King Rodrik gave us Bear Island, House Mormont has been sworn to House Stark. When Stannis asked me to bend the knee, I told him ‘House Mormont knows no king but the King in the North whose name is Stark.’ That is the pledge my ancestors made and I intend to honor it till my dying breath.”

Daenerys moved to reassure her, “Rest assured Lady Mormont, I am not the enemy here, neither to the Starks or to the North itself.”

“I know. From what my cousin has told me, the reason he’s here, still alive and not dead from Greyscale, with his honor reclaimed and a sense of purpose, is because of you. House Mormont owes you a debt for that. Moreover, he believes in you, and I trust his judgement. So, I make this pledge to you- as long as I do not have to go against the Starks, you shall find a friend in House Mormont. Now and always.”

* * *

“What are you going to do now Jon?”

“I don’t know Sam. Call Sansa, Arya and Rickon, for me will you? Bran, I want you tell them what you just told me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So,  
> It's been 84 years but Dickon Tarly is back!  
> I didn't know how much I needed Dany bonding with Rickon and Arya Stark until I wrote this piece.  
> Also, Lyanna Mormont and Rickon Stark are slowly taking over this story... I have no idea what to do about that!
> 
> How'd you like it? Do comment and let me know!


	11. Not as it seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Jon reveals what's going on in his head; Grey Worm sees more than anyone expects him to... and Daenerys has a moment of introspection.

“I’m not a Stark after all.” Jon was presently sitting with his chin resting on his fist.

“Aunt Lyanna was a Stark. That means you have Stark blood. And Ned was your father more than Rhaegar. That Targaryen prince never even met you.” Arya snapped at him without stopping her furious pacing.

Rickon was perched on a table, cross-legged and utterly confused on how this mattered.

Bran and Sam were watching from different corners of the room, while Sansa stood at the window, looking out, silent as a statue.

“I’ve been thinking of your decision to bend the knee, to ‘ensure she keeps her word’ as you said.”

Jon shifted in his seat and prompted Sansa, “And?”

“And,” She turned back to him, “She has dragons and an army so huge we cannot hope to defeat under any circumstances. Even if you hadn’t bent the knee, how long would it have been before she came anyway, not as an ally, but as a conqueror?”

Jon looked relieved, “Finally, someone understands. Could you perhaps explain that to anyone who’s planning a mutiny? I don’t fancy getting killed again.”

She jerked her hand as if waving off an annoying fly. “You do realize that people have forgotten their anger towards you? It’s shifted onto her so you are safe. There was more to your decision to bend the knee wasn’t it?”

Jon sighed and slumped back in his seat. “You’re right, there is more. But it doesn’t matter now because I won’t go through with it.” He looked around and elaborated, “I tried to do the same as I did with the Free Folk. Among them, I initially had Ygritte vouching for me, and then I managed to befriend Tormund and Mance Rayder himself.”

Sansa interrupted, “I thought Tormund was truly your friend.”

“He is now. But that’s not how it started.”

Rickon jumped down from the table, “You’re playing her? Jon, how could you? Bran, tell him it’s wrong!”

“I’ve never intended to discard her once I had what we needed Rickon. But I had to be sure before doing anything.”

Bran’s eyes flicked between Jon and Rickon, “You can’t blindly trust people Rickon. Not during wars. You need to make sure of their loyalty. Robb called Theon his brother, but never did anything to ensure that Theon would choose him instead of his birth family. Father trusted Littlefinger even though he knew that Littlefinger wanted the power for himself. Jon was just making sure that Daenerys wouldn’t turn on him.”

“Calm down Rickon.” Sansa tried to pacify him, “I advised him to be smarter than Robb and Father.” Glancing at Jon she added, “Not that I expected him to listen.”

Rickon glared at them. Arya pulled him down on a bench next to her, keeping an arm around his shoulders.

Jon then told them how he had observed her for a long time, making sure that she wasn’t mad like her father, before making any move to truly befriend her. That he had thought Tyrion would support him in convincing her but that he was put out of her favor when his strategy lost them Dorne and the Reach. That Varys seemed too much like Littlefinger so he kept away from him and that Missandei was far too loyal to her to even try.

Sansa took the seat next to him and Sam, “Then what happened?”

“Jeor Mormont’s son arrived at Dragonstone.”

“He wasn’t there from the start?”

Sam blurted out before Jon could explain, “He had grayscale, but he’s cured now. I made sure of it.”

Jon narrated how he’d initially approached him once they got back from securing the Reach hoping that for the sake of his father’s memory he would listen to Jon and help him convince Daenerys. How Jorah Mormont got her to include him and Ser Davos in their council meeting and talk about the issue seriously for once and was the first one to volunteer to go beyond the Wall. That he was also fostered at Winterfell when younger and that Uncle Benjen called him a brilliant military strategist. 

“He’s the one who told me alliances go both ways, and I couldn’t expect Daenerys to support us if she wasn’t getting anything in return.”

Sansa was angry, “His cousin declares you King and he tells you to give up that crown?”

“That’s not what happened, he said I didn’t have to give up my crown if I could find some other way. He’s a good man Sansa, a northerner down to every breath.” He stood up and withdrew longclaw, “This was his sword. The Mormont family sword, Longclaw. He refused to take it back, and so far he has supported me in front of Daenerys, even when I hid the part of Gendry being Robert Baratheon’s bastard.”

Arya jumped up, “Gendry is Robert’s bastard?”

“Aye,” he sheathed Longclaw again, “But don’t tell anyone. I don’t think Ser Jorah has told Daenerys yet. Now back to what I was saying, you already know what led to my bending the knee. She had the North by then, but to make sure she wouldn’t subjugate us, I took note of Ser Davos’ suggestion. An alliance between us was the right choice.”

Rickon grumbled, “We already have an alliance.”

Jon sat down again, drinking deeply, “Not a military alliance Rickon. A marriage alliance. You have Ser Jorah to thank for that idea. When I accused him of not supporting Northern independence, he lost his temper and lectured me about how our grandfather was using his children’s marriages to create strong alliances.”

At this point Bran broke in and revealed how Uncle Brandon’s engagement to Lady Catelyn, sending Ned to the Eyrie when Robert Baratheon was also there, Lyanna Stark’s engagement to Robert Baratheon, was all part of Lord Rickard’s plan to strengthen the position of the North to eventually demand for independence from Rhaegar.

Jon continued, “Ser Davos had been hinting at it already, I thought if I marry her, or at least have an engagement, I would have enough influence to at least get the North more freedom.”

Sansa was smiling, “You’d give yourself in marriage to ensure the safety of the North. Cersei once said that tears weren’t a women’s only weapon. There was one between the legs as well. I’m impressed, Jon. But why didn’t you tell us before?”

He took another swig from his mug of ale, “How could I when you put me on trial the moment I came back?”

Sansa colored and Rickon stared at his feet while Arya pretended to clean her fingernails.

“But none of that matters anymore. She’s my aunt. Thank the Gods Tyrion and Varys interrupted us before I could get into her bed.”

After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Sansa asked something that had been troubling her since their arrival. “Do you love her Jon?”

Jon poured himself more ale. “She’s got a good heart, she’s strong and beautiful. I do like her, and respect her. In time, I could have fallen in love I think. But knowing what I do now, I’ll stop trying to court her.”

“Do we tell her?” Arya asked form her corner.

Bran spoke out before anyone else could. “Not yet. There is another reason, something other than Robert’s wrath that made father hide you. It was unspoken between him and Howland Reed. He is the only one who can explain it. You need to wait until he comes before revealing anything.”

Jon stood up; a bit unsteady from all his drinking. “Why did you not wait until he came? We received the rider. He and his army will be coming in a few days.”

“I felt I couldn’t delay any longer. The suspicion from the northerners is making Daenerys’s council suspicious of us, especially you and Sansa.”

Jon fell back into his chair. “A circle of mistrust. Just what we needed.”

“What does it matter though? The Northern Lords will never accept a Targaryen, not after what her father did, not after Robb showed them what it was to be independent.”

Sam broke in, “Don’t be so sure, Lady Sansa. A few of them are starting to think kindly of her after tonight’s commotion at dinner.”

After some muttering about the fickle Northern Lords, Sansa shooed everyone off to bed.

* * *

When Jon woke up the next morning, it was with a headache worse than the one he had when he’d woken up after dying.

_Urgh. I am never drinking again._ He thought as he dragged himself out of bed.

As he got ready, and went to strap Longclaw he stopped and balanced the pommel against his palm. He wasn’t a wolf. Everything he’d believed his entire life had been a lie.

Ned Stark wasn’t his father, but his uncle. The aunt he’d never met was his mother. And the man whose name was cursed in the North, the man who was said to have raped and murdered the only daughter of the Starks at the time, plunging Westeros into a bloody war whose consequences were still being felt today, was his father.

He was never a bastard. He was the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.

Nothing had made him want to cry more. But now was not the time. He needed to prepare for the war to come. His parentage would be a problem for later, preferably after this war, assuming that they lived. Until they knew what their next move would be, he had to behave as if nothing had changed.

_How is it, that every time I solve a problem, another knocks on my door, bigger and more concerning than the last?_

He had been better off as a steward in the Night’s Watch.

* * *

Her knight, who has always guarded her.

Her friend, who has wiped her tears and made her laugh.

Her advisor, who has counseled her from the first. 

Her general, who has kept her armies organized.

Her believer, who has had faith in her even when she had nothing.

Her supporter, who has chosen her over and over again.

The man who has loved her enough to let her be with others.

He is all that and more. He was the first one to show her kindness. He treated her with respect not because of her brother or husband, but because he felt she deserved it. He pulled her off the horse when she was too blistered and bruised to do it herself. He silently encouraged her to show her inner strength, to embrace herself. He has always been her strength, her wisdom, her one anchor in all the storms that have raged around her.

He has seen her when she was a frightened little girl, when she was nothing more than a broodmare to be ridden at her husband’s pleasure, when she was a glowing soon to be mother, when she was a grieving widow. He has witnessed the birth of her dragons; he has seen her kill masters and free slaves. He has seen her be fooled by false promises and he has seen her outwit people at their own games. He has seen her be cruel and he has seen her be merciful. In her impatience, in her stubbornness, he has stood by her side, doing his best to protect her from herself and in her glory he had stood beside her, guarding her from those who would take joy in her failure.

He has seen her at her best and at her worst, and everything in between. In spite of that, or perhaps because of it, he refused to let her go, even when she did not value him, even when she sent him away. He stayed, and when she refused to keep him, going so far as to threaten having him killed, he stubbornly kept coming back.

He deserved so much from her, and yet, he asked for nothing but to serve.

When she had arrived at Dragonstone, she had been filled with a thrill of returning to the place where she was born. But something had been missing, the castle felt empty and not in a way that had anything to do with the presence of people. The lands on this side of the narrow sea were muted and dulled due to winter… until she saw him on the cliffside.

The sky seemed brighter, the cold winds not so biting, and in embracing him, a sense of completeness had washed over her.

A complete contrast to how everything had seemed so bleak when he had revealed his greyscale and she had given him, as it seemed at the time, a final task, thinking that him dying while trying to find a cure was better than him finding a desolate corner to kill himself.

A final fatal task for her knight.

She should have known better… as if Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island would fail to complete the quest his Khaleesi had sent him on.

On the way to Winterfell, when she had entered his tent, the first time they had been alone since he had shared his past with her, she had come close to losing the battle.

She had meant to have a casual chat with her friend, instead she had found that he still felt that he needed to earn her forgiveness for earlier transgressions. She had let him know, something she should have done long ago, that he was allowed to be free with her, that as her friend he had every right to take her name and touch her.

And what had he done? Decided to tease her, a small roughish smirk on his lips, his eyes sparkling like the summer sea underneath the sun. Her heart had flipped over in her chest and she wished, against every bone of reason in her body, that he would make good on his tease.

He hadn’t, her noble stupid knight. One raised brow was all it took to make him redden and look away.

Not wanting to make him feel worse, she had asked him, what it felt like to go home after so long. She had wanted to understand, what homecoming felt like, but somehow, they had ended up discussing his belief in his lack of worth in the eyes of the northerners and Grey Worm’s gesture of love.

She had seen the winter rose in his hand and had commented on it’s beautiful color, how it matched the depth of the sky in the day when she flew high enough… and the color of his eyes.

She hadn’t meant to say it, but she had. When she looked at him, once again, she wanted to kiss him. To wrap her arms around his neck, to press herself against his strong chest…

These feelings she had for him, she couldn’t define them, there was no name for it…. except one which she could not take. They were a bruise on her heart, aching every time she was alone with him, stopping herself from doing something that would interfere in the ‘great game of thrones’.

And that scared her more than anything. She feared, that if she started talking, she wouldn’t be able to stop. Thoughts lead to words; words lead to actions and actions have consequences.

She wished she could tell him, how much she valued him, how the sound of his footfalls made her feel safe, how his voice soothed her. How having him by her side made her feel as if the world was in her reach. How his smile made everything seem more vibrant, how she wanted to just exist with him with no other care for the world and never leave.

But she couldn’t. She was a Queen, and Queens must put the needs of their people above their own happiness. She wanted to build a better world, for that, sacrifices must be made. The desires of her heart were meaningless compared to what she wanted to accomplish.

And she had come too far to let it all go now.

So, when Jon Snow came with his tired face and absent smile asking if she would accompany him on the inspection of the war preparations, she smiled and agreed, setting aside the tome that held within its pages the blue rose that Jorah gave her, forever preserved.

* * *

Grey Worm did not like Jon Snow. He could not give a specific reason, but ever since Missandei had told him about all that had happened since he had gone to Casterly Rock, he found he did not like Jon Snow.

But more than that, he did not trust Jon Snow.

Jon Snow had come to their Queen only wanting her armies. And the Dragons. He wanted the Unsullied, and the Dothraki and the three Dragons to come to the North, where it was so cold that no matter what, Grey Worm could not get warm, and fight in a war against the Night King and his army of the dead. The Unsullied and the Dothraki had come. Only two dragons had come, Viserion they had lost. The Unsullied had abandoned Casterly Rock and with it the Westerlands to come here. Their Queen had pulled back her armies and stepped away from a war she was already fighting, leaving all the lands she had conquered unprotected, to come here, on Jon Snow’s word.

Of course, Tyrion, Varys and Missandei had advised for it as well when they saw that wight. Missandei claimed that had Grey Worm not been at Casterly Rock but in King’s Landing, he would agree that it was the only decision to be made.

It still did not make Grey Worm feel better about coming here. It felt like he was back among the masters, people looked at him and saw only a weapon.

All because the Queen chose to believe Jon Snow.

No, not just Jon Snow, she had believed Jorah as well.

But unlike Jon Snow, Jorah was loyal to their Queen. He treated her with respect and protected her from any harm, whether it came from words or weapons.

Jorah, who loved her the way Grey Worm loved Missandei.

And he would swear if anyone asked him, that the Queen loved him too.

He had seen them, the way they looked at each other.

It was less than a fortnight ago, he and Jorah were sparring. Grey Worm was younger and faster but Jorah was stronger and more experienced. And while Grey Worm fought with spears, he had his longsword. Their fighting styles were different as were their weapons. While sparring, they had been evenly matched. While they turned and swung blunted weapons to test each other, Missandei and their Queen had wandered over to where they were.

At some point, Grey Worm had tried to trip him with his spear, but Jorah had countered by twisting his arm. He could not explain how it happened, but they had ended up falling in the snow, face first. The snow was cold and bit his face, but Jorah had laughed and instead of pulling him up like always, he pushed his head back into it. 

It was the laughter of their Queen and Missandei that made him stop, looking like someone caught doing something he should not be doing.

Covered in snow from head to toe, Grey Worm saw Daenerys smile at Jorah the same way Missandei smiled at him.

Later that night, he had told Missandei what he had seen. Missandei had smiled sadly and said, “Sometime people don’t see what’s right in front of them. Eventually, they grow used to being blind and learn to love the chains they put around themselves.”

“Our Queen is the breaker of chains.”

“And yet, she gives herself the least freedom.”

So no, Grey Worm did not like Jon Snow.

But Jorah liked Jon Snow, and Jorah said that his father had also liked Jon Snow. Jorah thought that Jon Snow was honorable and trustworthy.

Grey Worm trusted Jorah. It was his trust in his friend’s judgement, that made him keep his doubts to himself.

Until he had proof. He silently watched Jon Snow from a distance, he watched his siblings, especially the one with the red hair, the one who reminded him of Hizdahr Zo Loraq. He watched the other northerners, he watched Ser Davos, Jon’s advisor.

Most northerners were like Jorah. Suspicious, doubting everyone and everything at first, but willing to put it all aside to work together. Jorah had never liked Daario Naharis, he had not trusted him at first, but he had fought alongside him, and then gone to find their queen with him. He trusted Daario to not stab him in the back, but he did not like him, not that Daario wasn’t too cocky to deal with at times.

He feared, it would be the same here. The people would accept Daenerys Stormborn as their Queen, but they would never like her.

And if they did not like her, how long before someone tried to harm her?

* * *

“Clancey and Philip are upset at your new habit of evading them.”

“I cannot be held responsible if they are unable to keep track of an almost thirteen-year-old child, can I now cousin?”

Jorah laughed, “No. But they seem to be under the impression that you would do anything I told you to.”

Lyanna didn’t answer.

Jorah continued, “You are young in age, but that makes you no less accomplished. So far, I have heard nothing but praise for you. Robett and Halys were very insistent that I ought to be proud of you.”

“Are you?” She hadn’t meant to ask that. It had slipped out.

Jorah was smiling at something in the distance, “Doubt your own name if you must, but do not doubt that.”

“Lyra might be alive.”

The abrupt change in conversation had him at a loss.

“How? Wasn’t she at the Red Wedding?” he asked, the words coming out harsher than he intended.

Lyanna squared her shoulders before answering, “A few months after the Red Wedding, we received a raven. It said, _‘In the midst of snow and sand, from the arms of the sea and below the sky, to stones in a swamp, now and always, here we stand’_ and instead of a signature there was a drawing of two long feathers. Those are our words, and Lyra was named for the lyrebird which has long plume feathers. It could only be her.”

He nodded, running the words over in his head, his hand giving her shoulder a light squeeze, “Sounds like a code. Similar to the ones used during wartime. Every word is a hint, referring to something or someone or somewhere. Has anyone cracked it?”

She rocked back on her heels, “Maester Philip spent days going over it. He concluded that the only thing we know for sure is that she’s alive. If it’s a hint to her location, then it’s too vague to decode. Snow and sand means that she could be anywhere from the North to Dorne and arms of the sea and below the sky suggests that she might be sailing somewhere.”

He looked around, mulling Philip’s analysis, “Makes sense, but I can’t help but feel we’re missing something.” Turning back to Lyanna he added, “She’ll find her way back.”

She glared at him, “How do you know?”

“I found my way back didn’t I?”

She opened her mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a call for him.

“Ser Jorah!”

Jorah turned to see Grey Worm coming towards him. The look on his face could only be defined as livid.

“Lady Mormont, hello. May I speak with Ser Jorah alone?”

Seeing Grey Worm’s state, she did not argue and left with a nod to Jorah.

Before Jorah could ask Grey Worm what had him in knots he was pulled aside into an empty room, and whispered furiously, “Jon Snow does not care about our Queen. He is pretending to love her.”

“What? How did you come to conclusion?”

“I saw them just now. A boy was giving water to the men digging the trenches, northerners and unsullied both were working together. When our Queen and Jon Snow came to inspect, all the Unsullied stood at attention for her in respect, but the northerners did not. Then one northerner took the water in his mouth and spit it in front of her while looking at her in disgust.”

Jorah made a sound of disgust, “A commoner no doubt. What sigil was he wearing? I’ll go and have a chat with whoever his Lord or Lady is.”

“I think it was a white sun?”

“White sunburst on black, House Karstark. ‘The sun of winter’. I’ll have a talk with Alys Karstark, and have her haul him up.”

“That is not all. At first Jon pretended to the Queen that he had not noticed, but he had, I know because I was watching them carefully. While the rest of the Unsullied waited for our Queen to say something, I went and pulled that man out of the trench using his collar with the intention to punish him as the Queen would decide. But Jon refused to let me, saying that we needed every man and preparing for battle was more important than any imagined insults. All the way from Moat Cailin to Winterfell, Jon Snow behaved like he was in love with our Queen. This is not how a man behaves when someone disrespects the woman he loves. Had someone done that to Missandei I would have taken the Queen’s permission and killed him right then and there.”

No, that was not how one behaved when someone disrespected the one you loved. Jorah’s thoughts immediately thought back to the time, just a few days ago, when he had seen Jon threaten to take the tongue of the man who had dared to question Lady Sansa’s authority. It had taken two men and Sansa herself to get Jon to back down. The question was, what had happened that made Jon unwilling to do the same for Daenerys? Could it be Lady Sansa influencing him? She and Daenerys were not getting along so far, and Tyrion and Varys were deeply concerned about her, seeing as she’d outwitted Littlefinger.

“How did Daenerys react to the whole thing?”

“For a moment I thought she would tell me to feed the man to Drogon. Then she looked around, everyone had stopped what they were doing and were looking at us. She just looked tired at that. I was about to argue with Jon Snow, but the Queen stopped me by saying in Valyrian that if I hurt him, a thousand northerners will pick up arms and cause trouble for us. She said that was a headache we did not need, and said to tell you what had happened. When I let him go, she said to Jon in common tongue, loud enough for everyone to hear that she was sorry for my behavior and that she was sending me to you to be disciplined.”

Jorah was even more confused than before. First Jon lied and tried to cover it up with petty excuses, then Daenerys also lied to Jon’s face, going so far as to claim that Grey Worm would be disciplined when she intended for him to tell Jorah everything.

“Something isn’t adding up. I thought they were falling for each other.”

So had everyone else, thought Grey Worm. According to Missandei, there was some attraction between the Wolf King and their Dragon Queen. So much so that everyone was certain something would come out of it.

“I need to speak with Daenerys, where is she?”

“Two Dothraki came and told her that the dragons were not eating properly, she asked Jon to send Lady Arya, because she promised to introduce her to Drogon and Rhaegal. She has gone there.”

“Then come, let us deal with the Karstark man in the meantime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, focus is back on Daenerys, Grey Worm is being a true ride or die bro fro Jorah and Dany. He and Missandei have the ship SSS Jorleesi ready to sail, and are all set as their captains, just waiting for their prime passengers to come aboard. 
> 
> I've also explored the political Jon theory here, because that's all that made sense in his treatment of Daenerys from beginning to end.
> 
> On a side note, Arya Stark has always admired Visenya Targaryen and her Dragon, what the fuck made d&d think she would not like Daenerys? So naturally, she gets introduced to the dragons instead of Jon... he wasn't much use up there anyway.


	12. Families- Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People lost can be found, and at the end of the day, where will you go if not home?  
> Howland Reed has arrived in Winterfell, ready to unveil the many secrets he has kept for years, as has Jaime Lannister, ready to face judgment, and seek redemption.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoys Jaime Lannister!  
> Also, Jorleesi fans, 55k slow-burn is enough right? Let's take the leap!

Tyrion had hoped that being on their best behavior would curb the hostilities they faced. He had hoped that Jon’s support would ease their way into acceptance.

He had been wrong.

In the evening, when they had met in her chambers about the incident near the trenches, Daenerys had fumed. Her frustration was understandable, justified even. Thus far she had given no reason for anyone to be even minutely offended, no reason other than her parentage.

Unfortunately, they could not change whose daughter she was, but they could make sure she didn’t have to face all that alone with a man who seemed to have a hidden agenda. It was not wise to leave her alone. He had requested Missandei to shadow Daenerys at every turn taking extra care to not leave her alone with any of the Starks, and try her best to keep their Queen’s fiery temper under control, or rather, redirect it at something else. Preferably towards the White Walkers that would be joining them soon. 

At least the Karstark man was dealt with.

Under the pretext of apologizing for Grey Worm’s rough handling of one of her men, and praising her ability to lead men who are so incredibly disrespectful to women, Mormont had informed her of the incident that occurred yesterday. The way he phrased it gave the impression that her men regularly spat at her feet, leading her to relegate the man to digging latrines and cleaning horse shit after a good verbal lashing, one that people at the Wall might have heard, and then summoning all her fighters and declaring that women are no less than men and anyone who dared to treat any women like that would be severely punished.

Tyrion felt it was very clever of Mormont to twist the subject from insulting Daenerys to insulting women in general. Several others, high and low born had joined in the complaints and declarations at dinner yesterday, also uniting the women against men who couldn’t keep their mouths shut to keep peace.

“I’ve been looking for you Lady Sansa.”

“I thought you were avoiding me.”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve been very excited to meet the wife whom I always tried to protect, after she left me to die for my nephew’s death.”

Sansa looked to him, “It happened quite fast, I was dragged away from it within minutes of Joffrey’s death. I never meant to leave you like that.”

“No, of course not. You were quite innocent in those days. Not anymore though.”

“I’ve learnt.”

“From Petyr Baelish of all men. I believe you had him executed?”

“It was Rickon who passed the sentence and slit his throat.”

“Do you truly expect me to believe that young boy is acting of his own accord?”

“Believe it or not, it is the truth. Rickon does listen to my council, but at the end of the day, he is as wild as his direwolf was. I have one question for you as well, do you truly trust your sister to send the Lannister armies?”

“I do.”

“I used to think you were the smartest man I ever knew.”

“I’m flattered. Cersei has several flaws, but stupidity is not one of them. She knows she will never be able to defeat Daenerys. Sending her armies here is in her best interests, and I trust her to do what is in her self-interests no matter her pride.”

Sansa slowly let out air, “I hope for your sake that you are correct.”

“Many people underestimated you before. They’re all dead now. And now here we are, the two of us, verbally sparring with each other as if we’re adversaries. I remember Varys and Baelish talking like this. No one here is an enemy, we’re all on the same side.”

Sansa gave him a long look. Her response was interrupted by a young maidservant informing her that Jon and Lord Reed were waiting for her.

Before leaving she said, “Anyone who isn’t my family is an enemy.”

As she left, Tyrion was standing at the balcony overlooking the training yard, looking at her retreating figure with a look of dawning horror. “That is exactly what Cersei used to say.”

“I don’t think you should listen to anything that comes out of her mouth.”

Tyrion jumped, “Mormont! What are you doing?”

“Looking for you. Well, actually I was looking for Varys first, but he’s nowhere to be found. I wanted to know when the Lannister armies are coming, they’re the only ones not here yet. Even Howland Reed has left his marshes.”

“I don’t know, but I expect them to arrive soon. And might I ask why Howland Reed is the prime example of lateness in responding?”

Mormont leaned against the bannister, “Well, Lord Reed accompanied Ned Stark to the Tower of Joy. Upon returning from Dorne, he never even came to Winterfell, the men separated at the Neck with Reed returning to Greywater Watch. He hasn’t emerged since then, until now that is. No one has seen him in years, it’s rather hard to visit him when his castle is lost in those bogs-” Mormont cut himself off abruptly, while his eyes glazed over as he seemed to reach within himself to untangle a knot. He murmured, mostly to himself, “Stones in a swamp…”

Suddenly he straightened, and looked at him with wide eyes, “I know where she is.”

Tyrion was at a loss, “Where’s who?”

But Mormont did not reply. He ran off.

* * *

Sansa and Jon sat on one side of the table, with Lord Reed on the other.

“Tell us the truth Lord Reed, the full truth. And also, why you did not journey to join earlier when we sent out the call for arms.”

Howland Reed regarded them coldly. “I wanted to see if you would be worth it. I allowed my children, sent them even, for your younger brothers. And yet, my daughter returned home alone, with no words of sympathy from anyone for my dead son. I admit, I was angered, and decided to not come until and unless I was personally summoned. Much to the displeasure of those who were under my roof.”

“And who was under your roof?”

“You have seen my armies when they arrived. I have bought eight thousand men with me, but only three of them are my own, the remaining five are remains of the young wolf’s army, along with the rightful rulers of two old houses. They joined me shortly before the Red Wedding, with the intention to march on Moat Cailin and lift the siege of the ironborn.”

Jon was up on his feet, “Lord Reed, I thank you for your service to the North, and apologize for not acknowledging you earlier. May I ask which Lords have survived?”

“One Lord, Galbert Glover, and one Lady…”

* * *

“Lady Maege?”

Ser Clancey’s words had Lyanna stop short. She turned to him, ignoring Rickon and Lady Arya, and saw him staring at something with a look of disbelief. She followed his gaze, then unconsciously mirrored his expression.

“Mother?”

It couldn’t be. She had been at the Red Wedding, died with the Young Wolf, the King who lost the North.

But she was, a bit greyer than what she remembered, more weary, but just as strong, and from behind her, stepped forward a woman with a young boy at her hip. Her sister was now a woman grown, her nephew, for who else could it be, not a baby, but a boy.

They were alive and they were here, right in front of her.

“Mother.” Her voice broke, but who cared for that?

Her mother smiled at her, looking so proud, Lyra whispered something in Jayden’s ear and set him down. He ran with stumbling steps towards her, as did she.

“Jayden!” She shouted in joy as she caught her giggling little nephew. He was alive, Ally’s boy was alive and well. Jorah would want to know.

“Lyra?”

But the words were not hers, the call of her sister’s name came from somewhere behind them.

Her mother and sister, turned to see who it was, and in the gap between them, she could see clearly, Jorah, chest heaving from running, the look of hope in his face giving way to shame, and a touch of fear as he saw the She-Bear.

* * *

_‘In the midst of snow and sand,_

Midst meant in the middle of. On the map, exactly half way between the North, the entirely frozen North that was the Land of Always Winter, and the sands of Dorne was the Neck.

_from the arms of the sea and below the sky,_

In songs sung by bards, the rivers were often called the arms of the sea, whose fingers reached deeper than one thought.

_to stones in a swamp,_

Greywater Watch, the only holdfast in the Neck, was a stone castle, hidden deep inside the swamps that made up the entire region.

_now and always, here we stand’_

He should have understood earlier. With the Riverlands taken over by the Freys, and the North by the Boltons, the only safe place was the Neck. No one but the crannogmen could navigate it on boat, the only route known to outsiders was the half-sunken Kingsroad.

He had to find Lyanna and tell her, if she had successfully made the journey, then Lyra would be here, somewhere among Lord Reed’s men. One of Lyanna’s men told him she and the younger Starks were seen heading outside the walls of Winterfell for a walk.

He broke into a run to find her. But before Lyanna he found her sister.

“Lyra?”

Only then did he notice who next to her.

* * *

She hadn’t thought she’d see him again. Not since he betrayed her, betrayed them all that night.

Ned Stark was to come in the morning, to take his head, the decree was passed in Winterfell, the quiet wolf would not give his own bannerman a trial to defend himself.

Jorah had been ready; he knew he’d bent the law too far this time. He was silent, his father’s merciless glare had instilled in him a habit to never admit his crimes, knowing that regardless of fault he would be blamed. As much as she had tried, he did not trust in his own worth enough to think he could be forgiven.

But he did trust her.

He had trusted her since that day he had come seeking the comfort his broken-hearted father could not give him, desiring a mother’s love he could no longer find…

That night, when she asked him to explain, he fell silent and gestured to Garrow to reveal what had happened. She told him to look at her, and when he finally did, she had slapped him. For the first time in her life, she slapped her beloved nephew.

What he had done was terrible. Her nephew was kind, strong and brave with honor and integrity. He was a good man. Which made what he had done even worse.

Ned Stark, and arguably all the men with more honor than sense would claim that his crime was slavery. That was not true. Jorah’s true crime was not caring enough about those men to give second thoughts to the morality of returning escapees to the person they had escaped from.

She, Philip, Garrow, Lord Rickard Stark, had all raised him better than that.

Even his parents, as much as a mother who died when he was young and a father who absented himself for years before altogether forsaking his son to join the bloody Night’s Watch, could raise him, had taught him better than that.

She’d let him know all that. She tore into him that evening, before telling him to leave.

She told him to go to Shadow Tower, the closet one to Westwatch by the sea, the closest manned castle to Bear Island, far enough from his father’s direct command. there, and delay in taking his oaths until she had presented his case to Ned Stark. At best, he would be allowed to keep his titles, at worst, he’d become a man of the Watch.

He refused to run away like that at first, until she told him that she would rather he be alive and far, than near and dead.

He left in the night, hiding Longclaw under the covers of his bed, so that they not find the sword until he was gone. But he betrayed them. He betrayed them all by not going to the Wall, by leaving Westeros all together.

He hadn’t trusted her enough to do as she told him to.

Her brother’s words still rang in head,

_Why would he Maege? He’s not your son._

Her brother always said that, to so many people.

When Philip tried to argue that if he doesn’t like fighting, he shouldn’t be forced to learn, and that there were plenty Lords who were scholars instead of warriors with lands that prospered just as much,

_He’s not your son._

When Garrow tried to say that his fighting style was not suited to a bastard sword and that Longclaw ought to be reworked into a longsword and a dagger to better suit him,

_He’s not your son._

When Lord Rickard argued against his marriage, saying that he was too strong willed and needed an equally strong woman to be happy, a timid girl who might not even be able to give him children owing to her weak health was not right for him no matter the oath Jeor had given, 

_He’s not your son._

He was Jeor’s son. Jeor who wanted the best for him- a good education, finest weapons training, a loyal wife from a good house- but always ended up doing more harm than good, and never even realizing it until it was too late, because Jorah was too eager to please his father to protest. He didn’t know that either, not until she threw down Longclaw at his feet, telling him that Jorah left, not to avoid punishment, but because he had ruined his own son, the son he should have held in his arms instead of keeping at arm’s length.

She’d torn into her brother as well, even as he cried. He had loved Jorah too, just as much as anyone else. But losing Sarah had broken something inside of him, something that broke anew every time he saw the boy she had brought into this world, the boy she died protecting, the one who had her eyes.

Maege was in front of Jorah now, he kept his eyes lowered, his lips pressed together, looking as repentant and afraid as a child would.

He whispered, so quietly he would not have heard had she not been standing in front of him, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He was trying so hard, even now, after all these years to not cry.

_He’s not your son._

“What are our words, do you remember?”

He finally met her eyes, looking hurt that she would even think that he had forgotten.

“Here We Stand.” As he spoke his stance shifted, more into a proud Knight from a noble House than a scared child. Her heart swelled with love.

She pulled him to her, holding him tightly, in case he disappeared once more.

_He is my son. He’s my son in every way that matters Jeor._

* * *

Jon and Sansa shared a look, silently weighing what they had been told. Sansa rubbed a hand over her forehead. "We can't reveal it to everyone else, but we can still use it."

Howland Reed spoke up, barely sparing a glance in Jon’s direction. “The Wall was the best place for you, but unfortunately, the White Walkers decided to wake up. Why do you want to reveal it?”

“Because the only way to put us in a position to demand independence is to disturb her claim to the Iron Throne.”

A maidservant burst into the room, “Lady Sansa! Forgive the interruption, but the Kingslayer has arrived.”

* * *

She was angry at him, at his little brother as well. He could hear it, he could see it, even if he’d been blind and deaf he would have felt it.

And she wasn’t the only one, the Stark girl he’d sent out Brienne to find was angry too.

Everyone from King’s Landing to the Wall, hell from Dorne to the Wall were angry at him.

Tyrion tried to defend him again, and Daenerys Targaryen snapped at him, seemingly as ferocious as her dragons.

But Jaime had seen her fear, he had seen the little girl underneath the Queen. Had he been clever like his father or his brother, or manipulative like Cersei, he might have reached inside and twisted the little girl’s throat to help his case.

But he wasn’t smart like them. He was the stupidest Lannister alive, who couldn’t even convince the Westerlands Lords to come up to the North.

“For fuck’s sake, Tyrion, just shut up. I’m not as smart as you but I can talk for myself.” Tyrion looked stunned at his declaration, while Daenerys and Sansa just looked at him with disgust and suspicion.

The two women were in agreement about his attempting to destroy their respective families, but only one of them was right. He let Sansa know that he regretted nothing he had done in a time of war and briefly prayed that Bran Stark wouldn’t say anything about his fall from that tower even though he remembered.

Turning to Daenerys he began, “Did I kill your father? Yes. Would I do it again? Also, yes. Why did I do it? That’s the real question. Your father was my King, he was the man who made me a Kingsguard. I abandoned my claims to Casterly Rock to serve him. I stayed with him even when no other Kingsguard would. When he burnt Brandon and Rickard Stark alive, five hundred men and women stood and watched in silence. Among them were Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur Dayne. Do you know what they did? A week after that day, Ser Barristan gave every Kingsguard a choice- stay with the Mad King or be reassigned to either Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys or Crown Prince Rhaegar or Princess Elia Martell and her children.”

She interrupted, just as he thought she would. “Ser Barristan was loyal to my father.”

Jaime spread his hands, “That’s the name he used, the Mad King. He didn’t hesitate to bend the knee to Robert either, and from what I’ve told, he was quite devastated that he failed to protect that whoremonger from being gored by a boar.”

He saw her exchange a look with someone behind him, but stopped himself from turning to see who it was.

He continued. “In the end, there were only two Kingsguard Knights left in the Red Keep. Ser Alliser Thorne who guarded Elia Martell and her children and me, who guarded your father. I guarded him to the bitter end, even when the Lannister army led by my father was sacking the city. I guarded him up until he told his pyromancers to set the whole city on alight with wildfire and ordered me to bring him my father’s head. When a madman’s chant of ‘Burn them all’ became a command from our King, that’s when I killed him. I took my sword and stabbed him in the back, then I slit his throat and I would do it all over again!” He ended with a shout. He hadn’t meant to shout; it wasn’t wise to shout when you were surrounded by people who wanted to gut you.

Daenerys sat still, her petite hands tightly gripping the arms of the chair she sat in, her feet just touching the ground. As he stared at her, their eyes met, and once again, he caught a glimpse of a little princess. Just like his Myrcella was.

No, Daenerys was not her father.

“It’s uncanny, how much you look like your mother. I used to guard her at first, when Prince Viserys was a baby.”

“Is that to gain you my sympathy?”

“I don’t want your sympathy; I made my own choices.”

“Then what do you want Kingslayer?” The little girl was gone, but he knew she was in there.

He shrugged, “To be allowed to fight for the living, and hopefully earn enough honor to not be remembered as the Kingslayer.”

A moment of silence as she glared at him. Then, a voice, steady but with no recognizable accent called out from behind him, “I have known her Grace to give the chance for redemption to a disgraced knight before.”

All of her anger was gone faster than mist as she stared at that same spot somewhere behind him to the right. This time he turned, and saw a man he recognized. Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island, the only man to ever break nine lances with him, and that too at the tourney of Lannisport. Tywin Lannister had given him an hour-long lecture for that loss.

“You’ve been so loyal that sometimes I forget that you were once a slaver and a traitor.” The fire breathing mother of dragons spoke softly to him, and somehow Jaime knew that man was the only one to be spoken to as such. Some silent message passed between them, all through their eyes.

As he and Daenerys returned their attention to each other, her anger was gone, but distrust and the pain of what he had told her remained. He didn’t blame her for that. Even he wouldn’t trust himself.

But some instinct of self-defense was still strong in him, and so he spoke, hoping to prove his value, something to tip the scales in his favor.

“The Riverland armies are coming tomorrow. Edmure Tully is coming to support his nephew, Rickon Stark, the Warden of the North. I couldn’t get the Lannister armies to follow me, but Lord Tully owes me a favor and it was enough to get him to call his banners here.”

She remained still, then abruptly turned her head to the thirteen-year-old Warden. “Lord Stark, this man has hurt your family in recent years, what is your decision?”

That’s when Brienne came to his defense, vouching for him, and Sansa agreed to trust him.

This seemed to annoy the boy, who tried to conceal his glare at his sister. “Jon, what do you say?”

Jon took a deep breath before answering, “I say we need every man we can get.”

“Arya?”

“It won’t be hard to kill him if he tries anything.”

Another sigh, “Bran?”

Bran Stark stared at Jaime, then spoke, slowly, deliberately, “I am a cripple. I cannot protect myself, and instead must rely on others to keep me safe. I trust you to make the right decision little brother. I will be in the Godswood if anyone needs me.”

The last words were for Jaime, he understood. If he survived, he would go before the Old Gods of the Forest.

“If you hurt my pack, I will slit your throat and watch you bleed to death the way I did with Petyr Baelish. Hopefully the dead will kill you before it comes to that.” Turning to Daenerys he added, “The Warden of the North is willing to accept Ser Jaime into our combined armies should her Grace allow it.”

Daenerys did not reply, but gestured to the Unsullied guard who roughly handed him Widow’s Wail.

Taking the sword, Jaime knelt, “Thank you, your Grace.”

She did not respond to him, instead choosing to walk away in silence as the rest of the assembly filtered out, including his brother who gave him a single pat on his shoulder.

* * *

The only reason she was doing this was because Jorah had asked her to. It would have so easy for him to urge her to remove Tyrion as her Hand, and claim the position for himself. Instead, he argued for his worth, coaxing her to forgive him, and make peace with Sansa Stark as well, while his family, who may as well be back from the dead, waited for him to join them.

No one would ever love her or serve her so selflessly as he did. For his sake, she would be the first one to extend the olive branch.

The conversation started easily enough, their trust in their sworn protectors was a good starting point. The reason for Sansa’s mistrust seemed to a general suspicion of outsiders, borne out of years of misery at the hands of others.

“You say that the North was taken from you as if you were banished from your homes and lands. That did not happen before, it will not happen now. You may rule the North as you see fit for the most part. Whatever you shall need for the prosperity of your common folk, I shall ensure that you have it.”

“We can ensure it ourselves, your Grace. The Riverlands are ruled by our Uncle Edmure and the Vale by our cousin, sweet Robin.”

Yes, Daenerys knew that. Throwing that fact in her face was how Jorah had gotten her to approach this Ice Queen in the first place. Before she could answer though, they were interrupted by Theon’s arrival.

Yara had gone to secure the Iron Islands as a base of retreat should Winterfell fall, and Theon had respectfully asked to be allowed to fight in the Stark’s name instead of hers.

It was soon after that, that Jon came and after sharing a look with Sansa, said that there was something she needed to know.

Missandei was reluctant to leave her alone with the wolves, but Daenerys had insisted on doing this alone. The conversation would haunt her for days to come. The growing nausea she had felt when a Lord with a lizard clasp on his cloak told his tale, and Samwell gave proof. The only relief was the oath that what was discussed would not leave the room. Not until the dead were dealt with.

She wasn’t the last dragon. Aegon Targaryen was. Jon Snow, the trueborn son of Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark.

How could her kind brother who loved his harp more than his sword do this?

How could he just set aside his wife, his two children and elope with a barely grown woman?

How could he let his family be destroyed like that?

Jon was her family too, but when she said that he wasn’t a Stark but a Targaryen, his reply was fierce,

_I might have born in Dorne, but I was raised among the Starks as a Stark._

He wasn’t her family, no matter their shared blood.

She saw Viserys in the corner of the room.

Jon was the last male heir, and as per the precedent of the Iron Throne’s succession, his claim was stronger. That wouldn’t have been the case had Viserys been alive, for he had been crowned as King by their mother before they went into exiled. She never imagined that she would think that- this wouldn’t be happening if Viserys was still alive.

“The throne was never yours,” He mocked, “You should have stopped your horse lord husband from killing me. I would be King, and you my sister-wife and Queen.”

“A terrible thought.”

Her bother stepped towards her and sneered, “Wake the Dragon sweet sister. Burn them all.”

“No. No, I won’t do that!”

“Your Grace?” Thank the Gods for Missandei.

“Daenerys please, that’s all I am.” She whispered into the dark room as Missandei softly closed the door behind her. She had been sitting alone and staring at the walls for hours, no wonder she was seeing ghosts.

All that she had worked for, all for nothing. She had armies and dragons, but what good were they if the people of Westeros did not accept her? She could kill her opponents and seize the throne, but how long until people rebelled against her the way they did in Meereen? The only reason Meereen had finally prospered was because there were more slaves than masters and she was their Mhysa. Here though, could she truly count on the Reach and Iron Islands when both Dickon and Yara might have to stand against their brothers should it come to it?

Missandei stood behind her and started rubbing her shoulders most likely realizing that Daenerys needed comfort.

“You are far more than just Daenerys. You are Stormborn, The rightful Queen and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms, The Breaker of Chains, -”

Daenerys sighed,

“-the Khaleesi of the Great Grass sea,”

“Mmm.”

“-the Unburnt and the Mother of Dragons.”

Daenerys groaned, “So many titles-”

“And yet, the most important one is always missing.”

Daenerys twisted her head to look at her, “Which one?”

“A woman. One with hopes and dreams and desires that have nothing to do with any sort of birthright or serve any greater purpose.” Missandei smiled sadly at her, “When was the last time you did something for own happiness, spent a night without any titles or expectations or any worries?” She came forward and took her hand in her own, “You deserve a night of peace and happiness, far more than anyone.”

The last time she had felt like that? It wasn’t that long ago, a rare moment of bliss after long time… she had found it not alone, but with someone. 

She stood up and embraced Missandei, before leaving the room.

For tonight, the Seven Kingdoms could wait. The Starks and their secrets and games could wait. The Night King and his Army of the Dead could wait. As could Cersei and any other enemy she had.

There was only one place, with a certain someone she needed to be.

She knocked on his door and called softly, “Ser Jorah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long Live House Mormont! 🐻  
> This chapter might not seem too Stark friendly, I have so far painted Sansa as an antagonist, and Jon as an accomplice but I promise that everyone deserves better and will have their moments to shine and be good.  
> Just might take a few chapters. 
> 
> For example, next chapter will feature Meera Reed/Bran Stark, another one of my OTP's that D&D ruined, some Theon/Sansa, and of course, Bear-Dragon love-making. 
> 
> Also, should I change the rating and try my hand at smut or keep it off-screen? 
> 
> Do leave a comment and let me know!


	13. Anything for my Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The things we do for love.  
> Two disgraced Knights and one broken boy discover the many aspects of love- forgiveness, understanding, and patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, posting this took much longer than I expected. The last two weeks have been busy for me, with my summer internship beginning and my mother falling sick, I barely had anytime to write.  
> Thankfully, my work routine has settled, and my mum is better now, so now I might be able to write more regularly. Which is really good, 'coz I de-stressed a lot writing up this chapter and part of the next one. 
> 
> Hope you like it!
> 
> Also, the Jaime-Jorah broship is a suggestion from elenistica5, and I was also inspired by rileypotter17.   
> One small section of Jaime's dialogue is a borrowing from a lodessa (tumblr).   
> This chapter is dedicated to them.

Bran waited in the Godswood, the Kingslayer had come and gone, but there was someone else who would come to him. Rickon and Arya were currently observing the Unsullied train, Arya had been thrilled since she had seen the dragons up close, while Rickon was busying himself in mimicking the Unsullied techniques of spear wielding.

He heard her approach. “Meera,” he greeted, turning his chair to face her.

“My greetings to the Three-eyed Raven.”

Bran lowered his eyes, ashamed, “You are still angry at me. I understand, I deserve it.” He looked up again, “I want you to know, I am sorry for what I said.”

“The three eyed Raven doesn’t need to apologize.”

“No, the Raven does not. But Bran does. I have always been and will be Bran Stark. There are times when I am more than myself, when I go back in time, but when I return I am again Brandon Stark. Bran the Broken.”

She frowned, shuffling her feet, and whispered, just loud enough for him to hear, “You’re not broken.”

“Am I not? I cannot walk, or fight, or do anything but sit and eat on my own. In my mind, there are so many things, I remember so much, see so much, there are moments I cannot tell what is false or true or of a different reality, one that did not come to pass. Everyone warned me, you, Jojen, the last raven, against staying outside of myself for too long. I had lost myself, and in that I hurt you,”

“Shut up.”

“I hurt you, the person I cared about most, the person who never complained about dragging my useless body across frozen lands, and-”

“I told you to shut up.”

“-nothing I can ever say will make for that, but-”

“Enough, Bran.”

“I want you to know-”

“I said shut up!”

“-I love you!”

They shouted simultaneously, chests heaving, Meera looked confused and hurt, Bran lowered his gaze again,

“And I’m sorry.”

Meera stepped closer, angrier than he’d ever seen her, “Sorry? You’re sorry? Sorry will not fix anything! For what exactly are you sorry for anyway? For my brother-”

“For everything.” He held her gaze, “For being too lost in the past to see what was in front of me. For not honoring those who died for me as I should have. For telling you that I don’t need you anymore… I’m sorry for that the most. I have always needed you, you’re the only reason I’m alive.”

Meera swallowed, not looking so angry anymore. Finally, she stepped closer to him, “It doesn’t matter. It’s all done now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I just said-”

“I’m sorry for loving you.”

A pause, a faltering of her steps. “Oh.”

Bran looked away again, “You’re brave and strong, and smart and beautiful. You deserve to be loved by someone whole. Someone worthy of you, not a cripple like me.”

When she didn’t answer, Bran once again looked to the ground. She stepped closer and knelt in front of him.

“I think I can decide who’s worthy or not for myself.” Then she kissed him.

* * *

Maege Mormont was known as the ‘She-Bear’. Her spiked mace intimidated even men such as Greatjon Umber, no one dared argue with her. Galbert was the man between the two of them, but still differed to her when they set sail for Greywater Watch on the orders of the Young Wolf.

But for her dear nephew, she would be gentle. He was always such a sweet boy, and when his mother left this world, his screams of joy and laughter stopped echoing in their halls. His father, who had been disappointed in him since he had learnt to walk but not taken to the blade, became even more difficult to please. His smiles faded as he trained under Garrow’s watchful eyes, thinking that he would have saved his mother had he learnt sooner, his father too lost in his own pain to dispute the notion… well, it was such a sorry state of affairs, that boy deserved to have a gentle hand patting his back.

But the things he did, it was rather difficult to be patient with him.

Finally, he graced them with his presence.

“What the bloody hell were you thinking Jorah?” She growled at him.

“Hello to you to Maege.” He was smiling, the insufferable brat. Lyra, another insufferable brat, dared to laugh. Seeing their elders, Jayden and Lyanna also started giggling.

“Alright now children, that’s enough.” Even Philip was smiling as he tried to calm everyone.

Maege would have none of it. While Jorah was away with his council, Lyanna and Philip had told her a brief version of her nephew’s life these past years, with Lyanna briefly arguing with them that he had redeemed himself a thousand times over, all because of that silver haired queen.

“You serve as the personal guard of a Targaryen. How could you? Lord Rickard treated you as a son, Lyanna Stark was your sister as well.”

“And they’re both long dead.” Jorah moved to the side of the room, where Jayden was sitting next to Lyanna, and laid a kiss on the boy’s forehead.

Standing up again, he looked her in the eye, “Would you have me slit the daughter’s throat for her father’s crimes?”

“Of course not, but-”

“But what? I didn’t blindly kneel before her if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ve been with her for years; I’ve seen her grow from a scared little girl to someone who protects people. I’ve seen her treat even the lowest of the low kindly, the way Lord Rickard used to. He was a good ruler wasn’t he? Well, I won’t say she is like him, she’s too quick to temper for that, but she does have a gentle heart. She cares about the people; she wants to build a better world and I believe in her. I don’t serve her because of some oath my ancestors made. I serve her because I choose to.”

Maege wouldn’t bend that easily. “Her council consists of the Spider and the Imp.”

“And two former slaves and one Dothraki horse lord. Although, Tyrion, Varys and I have also been slaves at one point, rather recently in my and Tyrion’s case, if you want to be accurate. And Tyrion is not like the other Lannisters. He has compassion, a sense of right and wrong, and he’s a good friend. We’ve been through quite a bit. Varys on the other hand, comes from nothing, and serves the common people. He’s cunning and you wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side, but he’s not evil as his reputation suggests.”

“What about the Dothraki and Unsullied? One famous for raping and raiding, and the other mindless eunuchs. Lyanna tells me you command both?”

Jorah rocked on his heels, “I do, technically. In reality, I mostly supervise, they have their own commanders. And I’ll have you know that the Dothraki haven’t raided a single household or raped since coming to Westeros. Daenerys wouldn’t let them. They’re also not that different from the Free Folk or the Forest and Mountain Clans of the Wolfswood and the Vale respectively. And the Unsullied might have been castrated as boys, but they’re not mindless. And Maege, are you really going to stand there and tell me one needs balls to be a respected fighter?”

Maege grumbled something unintelligible before sitting down.

Jorah sighed, and knelt down in front of her. “Maege, I’m not asking you to accept her on my word. All I ask is that you give her a fair chance.”

Maege let out a puff of air, “Well, as Lady, Lyanna has already promised her House Mormont’s friendship, so I can’t very well take it back and prove my daughter a liar now can I?” She levelled a stern look to Jorah, “But she better be worth it.”

“She is.” He stood up, “Now how about you tell me how you survived the Red Wedding.”

* * *

“Lady Brienne, wait!”

“Ser Jaime, I already told you, you can be part of the battalion I’m leading.” She stopped and turned around to face hm again. Podrik was nowhere to be found.

“Thank you for that. I just,” he hesitated, uncharacteristically for him, but he had been behaving out of sorts since he arrived. He was speaking again, “I wanted to talk with you. I enjoyed our conversations. When we were travelling together.”

Brienne looked skeptically at him, “The conversations where we found new ways to insult each other every time we opened our mouths?”

He tried to say something, then settled for shrugging his shoulders and nodding dumbly.

Brienne hopes she is conveying her incredulity clearly.

Ser Jaime licks his lips once, they’re almost hidden by his beard, and says, “I would like to know your opinions… on the present scenario in Winterfell.” He hastily adds, “You’ve been here longer, and I believe there is a lot of tension going on between the Stark family.” It seems he has found a valid excuse for his voice goes more confident, “The Warden is the youngest boy of the family and he is clearly unhappy with his siblings. That could be fatal to my life and I would like you to assist me in making sense of the situation.”

“You can ask your little brother.” She points out.

He blinks, “I could.” He dares to step closer, “But I would like to hear it from you. I trust you.” Again, he seems to fight some internal battle, “I came here for you.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that. In the end, she settles for whirling around and continuing to walk. But she is not cruel, so she grants him his wish. “We can walk and talk.”

The enthusiasm he joined her with reminded her of Podrik. Podrik, who had become absent after Ser Jaime showed up. Odd.

“There has been some tension among the siblings, but the decisions are made together. As young as the Warden is, he is not stupid. He knows how to listen then consider everything. A natural leader if you will, and his siblings respect his decisions even if they don’t fully agree with them. You are quite fortunate that the Starks are willing to put aside past quarrels. Otherwise that Targaryen would have fed you to her dragons.”

“She wouldn’t have.”

“She burnt Lannister men at the crossing.”

“She could have burnt down the walls of Kings Landing and captured the throne. She didn’t.”

Brienne stopped and faced him. “Why are you defending her? You’ve just met her.”

Jaime sighed, “It’s true that I’ve just met her. But I knew her father, I knew her mother, and I knew her brothers. Aerys was mad, Viserys clearly took after him. Rhaegar was always lost in his own world and Rhaella was broken by her husband’s madness. I’ve seen her, even twice is enough. I assure you, she’s not her father.”

“Her advisors consist of that spider-”

“Quite smart of her to keep him close. He’s not someone to be crossed.”

“She has powerful armies that can take over the Realm, not to mention dragons.”

“And yet she pulled back every last soldier.”

Brienne glowered, “And this knight of hers…”

“Mormont is no laughing matter,” Jaime advises, “He’s always been good, not flashy or elegant in the way that inspires talk, but smart, thorough, and unrelenting.”

“He’s not Arthur Dayne,” Brienne points out.

“No,” Jaime acknowledges, “But he’s the kind of man who ultimately kills a man like Arthur. He’s sharp and patient and isn’t afraid to exploit a situation where he’s gifted with sheer luck.”

“You sound as though you admire him.”

“I do,” Jaime admitted, “He’s made mistakes, like every man who ever lived. But Ser Jorah is someone to take seriously. He isn’t a quitter or a fool, and someone like that gets more dangerous with time, not less.”

Brienne is quiet for a moment, then she adds, “He defended you. Now here you are, singing his praises. I didn’t know you were friends with him.”

Jaime swallowed. “I’m not. I’ve only spoken directly to him once, after the tourney at Lannisport. The one after the Greyjoy Rebellion. We were in the final tilt, and broke nine lances against each other. Absurd number isn’t it? Rarely do two knights last more than four rounds. There was no clear victor even after the ninth run, but Robert was impatient, and since I had come close to falling off more times than Ser Jorah, he was declared as the final victor. Later that day, when I went to see if he would take my horse and armaments or agree to a ransom, he asked me how many knights had defeated the Golden Lion. None had, even today he’s the only one to ever beat me in a tourney. He nodded, and then asked me to pay whatever I judged was the worth of my horse and armaments in ransom.”

“I’ve never heard people do that.”

Jaime scoffed, “No one does. I asked him what if I judged the worth to be one gold dragon, he said he trusted that I had enough honor to not cheat him, then went back to brushing his own horse. Didn’t even call me Kingslayer once.”

“How much did you pay him?” She prompted when he stopped talking, clearly lost in the memories of those days.

Jaime came back to himself and shook his head, “I don’t remember, but I assure you, it was fair.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“I will. A Lannister always pays his debts.”

* * *

Jorah sat in the presence of his family, on the woolen rug in front of the fireplace. Jayden lay sleeping in his lap, while Lyanna was sitting at her mother’s feet having her hair combed and braided while Philip spoke with Maege. Clancey and Lyra sat in a corner, speaking softly. The pain of losing Dacey, Ally, Jory and his father would never fade, but having Lyra, Maege and Jayden would make it bearable, not just for him, but Lyanna as well.

Jayden Mormont, his nephew, with the grey eyes of his great uncle Jeor and the dark hair of his mother Alysanne. He was small for a boy of almost seven, but his hands and feet were large, Jorah observed comparing them to his own, and there was the promise of height in them. He was also the first living boy born to House Mormont since himself.

There was an old fishwife’s saying for their family, that never have there been two Mormont men in the same generation, nor do more than two ever live at the same time for long. Jorah’s father, grandfather, his father before him, not to mention he himself were all only sons, his grandfather dying shortly after his birth and his own sons dying in the birthing bed while he and Jeor lived. Maege had only daughters, but somehow Ally’s second child was a healthy boy. This ‘shortage of sons’ was partly the reason the people on the mainland did not object to women ruling the Island. It was why Ned Stark agreed to Maege’s fatherless daughters having the name Mormont instead of Snow.

It was quite amazing how they had all survived, especially Lyra.

Maege and Galbert Glover had been sent by Robb Stark to Greywater Watch with five thousand men some weeks before the Red Wedding, Lyra joining them. Not that anyone other than Dacey knew that. Dacey, who was for certain slaughtered that night. Lyra, after the Red Wedding had made to travel to Deepwood Motte in the hopes to get the men out of the neck and back to their homes, only to find that Yara Greyjoy had laid siege and that the Bolton men had sealed the roads all over the land.

In Deepwood Motte however, something unexpected happened. Yara Greyjoy caught Lyra trying to sneak in, but instead of making her a prisoner, she turned a blind eye, giving her a window of one hour to take one of the hostage children and leave.

Jayden, the future of their house, was alive because of a Greyjoy. How ironic. Should Yara ever manage to claim the Salt Throne, the Mormonts would not object to her.

As happy as it all was, what was a reunion if not bittersweet? Lyanna’s anger had faded when it was found that Maege hadn’t known that the ship that carried two of her daughters and her only granddaughter had been lost. She had been under the impression that Alysanne and Jorelle would be here to greet them, that Jayden would meet his mother again. He more than anyone understood his nephew’s pain. To want nothing more than to embrace your parent but to discover that they had died.

Like everyone and everything, their family had wounds, and was smaller than it had been. But there was love, and they were a hardy sort. The Mormonts of Bear Island would survive.

The pleasant warmth in his chest had almost driven away the pain he felt constantly. His place was by Daenerys’s side. He was sworn to her in every way possible, and in the time he spent away from her, it had become clear that no matter what he did to distract himself, he would always feel incomplete without her. Maege wasn’t too happy about his insistence on becoming a ‘glorified bodyguard to a Targaryen’ instead of reclaiming his Lordship, nor was Lyra, but they had accepted it, on the condition that he would never forget his family and come visit every now and then.

It was a small comfort, he thought with a sigh, to know that if someday Daenerys decided she no longer had any need of him, he could at least return to his birthplace and the family he had by blood.

Although, by now he seriously doubted that Daenerys would send him away again. Even today, while he was telling her how he barely managed to restrain himself from throwing Tyrion into the sea, she had smiled sweetly at him, and he would swear under a Wierwood, that she had glanced at his lips just as he had glanced at hers.

These little moments were making his head spin. That, and Grey Worm’s insistence that Jon was faking his loyalty to Daenerys so he could have her armies fight against the Night King.

Jon was a bastard, but he was Ned’s bastard. He could not, under any circumstance, believe that Ned had not taught his children the value of honor. Ned’s bloody honor had cost him quite a bit, his bloody honor had cost the Starks quite a bit too. Eddard Stark was not as wise as his father Rickard, nor as skilled a leader as his brother Brandon, but he had honor. The fact that his son, the son that his father, Jeor Mormont had chosen above Jorah himself, could lie like that was unfathomable.

Even if Ned hadn’t taught his bastard that well, his father was a good judge of character, wasn’t he?

To believe that Jon Snow was not a reliable ally, would mean doubting more than just him. It would mean questioning Jeor’s judgement of him, his decision to give away Jorah’s sword to him, his choice to name Jon his successor in the Night’s Watch, his belief that Jon could lead them to victory against the White Walkers.

To doubt Jon, would be to doubt his father.

Besides, to quote Ser Davos, unless the Night King and his army was defeated, it wasn’t going to matter whose skeleton sat on the Iron Throne.

All this had presented a new problem for him. Should push come to shove, House Mormont was sworn to stand by the Starks, even Lyanna’s promise of friendship ended where the oath to the wolves began.

On one side would be his kin and on the other his queen, both he had betrayed once, both had forgiven him. The choice between them was such that no matter which side he chose, he would never forgive himself. How could he ever betray those who welcomed him with open arms even after all he had done?

For their sake, he selfishly hoped, tightening his hold on Jayden, while glancing at the three headed dragons clasp that held his cloak, that Jon wouldn’t betray them.

* * *

After searching the training yard and the Dothraki camps he’d come across the Unsullied who had handed him Widow’s wail, and the curly haired woman who had been with Daenerys in the Dragon’s pit. When he approached them, Unsullied had made himself look as threatening as possible while the woman had given him a welcoming smile. The juxtaposition between their reactions was made worse by the fact that they were holding hands.

Jaime held up his hands in surrender and asked if they had seen Ser Jorah.

“What do you want with him?” The Unsullied, whom he now discovered was named Grey Worm, glowered at him.

“I wanted to thank him for this morning.”

The woman, Missandei smiled at him, holding back the Unsullied. “He is with his family.” Then she gave him directions to the room he would be in.

Jaime took a deep breath and gathered his courage for knocking on the door. With winter upon them, the sun would be setting soon. It was already starting to darken.

The door opened, and there stood Ser Jorah with a young boy sleeping on his shoulder. Seeing him he immediately called someone and handed over the boy before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

“You have some nerve knocking on a bear cave like that.”

Jaime didn’t know how to begin. He stood there dumbly; the stupidest Lannister alive.

Ser Jorah raised an eyebrow at him, “Well, is there something you wanted to say?”

He nodded, trying to find the words, he blurted out, “She’s not her father. Seems more like her mother, only stronger.”

Ser Jorah nodded, relaxing his stance, “I can’t say if she is like her mother, but she is most certainly not her father.”

Jaime continued, remembering his own children, wonderful Myrcella and sweet Tommen, so pure despite their parentage. “It’s ironic, she was born out of her mother’s pain and father’s insanity, but she’s possibly better in character than both her brothers who were born out of love.” He locked eyes with the Knight before him, “He used to visit her you know. Every time he burnt someone he would visit her. Ser Darry and I would stand guard, hearing everything, her cries of pain, we would stand there like statues and hear our sweet gentle Queen beg her husband to not hurt her.”

Jorah couldn’t look away from his pained face, remembering Daenerys’s own cries in the beginning of her marriage to Drogo, and realizing with horror that Daenerys was the result of her mother’s rape. “You were sworn to protect her as well. Why didn’t you?”

“As Ser Darry said to me, we were indeed sworn to protect her as well, but not from him.”

“You didn’t tell her that.”

“I won’t hurt her like that.”

Ser Jorah stepped closer to him, “You tried to kill her on the crossing, why the change of heart now?”

Jaime didn’t look away, “Because I saw her fear. I can’t explain it, I’m not good with words like the rest of my family, but I saw her. A little princess, who’ll make a fine Queen when the time comes. Just like my Myrcella would have.”

Ser Jorah looked at him a while longer, trying to find signs of deceit.

Jaime took his chance. “I swear this to you, one knight to another, I will not hurt her, and I will forever be grateful to her for allowing me to fight to reclaim my honor. Although I don’t suppose you believe me.”

“I believe you.” He said, extending his forearm to Jaime. After hesitating for a moment, Jaime took it with his left, sealing the vow he made.

* * *

Daenerys stood in front of Jorah’s room, waiting for him to open it. The sun had set by now, the hallways lit by lanterns. 

What she was about to do was possibly her most reckless and selfish act in years. Queens were not allowed to be selfish, they existed to serve the people.

But Daenerys wasn’t a Queen. She was a claimant to the throne, yes, but she was not the true heir. So, the duty of a monarch towards their people, no longer applied to her. She had denied herself for too long, not anymore. She was done chaining herself, a dragon was meant to be free.

In a way it was ironic. When prompted, Ser Barristan had told her a lesser known tale about her mother. How she had loved a relatively low-born landed Knight of meagre means, but had let him go to marry her father as was her duty towards her house, her family and the Realm.

For years she had been doing the same, but not today. She imagined her mother smiling at her from beyond.

When the door did not open, she made to knock again, thinking that her whisper was too quiet for him to hear, only to notice that the door was latched from the outside.

Ser Jorah was not in his room.

The one time she approached someone, instead of letting others offer themselves to her, was the one time he wasn’t in his room.

The reason for his absence made itself known to her tired mind. Members of his family had returned to the North. He had told her, when she had made her way to Sansa, that he would be with them should she require his presence.

She could have him summoned; it would take only a moment… but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Home was what they had both prayed. The words of their respective families, the loyalty of _‘Here We Stand’_ and the ambition of _‘Fire and Blood’_ were their strongest traits.

Winterfell was not her home, nor was Dragonstone. Jon was her family by blood, but he had chosen the Starks.

For Ser Jorah though, the North was his home, and his family was here. She wouldn’t take him away from them, even for one night.

Maybe he would choose to stay here after the war…

She shook her head, it didn’t matter. If he would choose to stay, if that would make him happy, bring a smile to his face, then she would allow him. She turned around to head back to her own rooms, when she collided into something.

No, someone. The one who over the years had taught her what love was, not through words, but through actions.

“Were you looking for me your Grace?”

He looked at her so fondly, with gentle eyes and a soft smile, she couldn’t stop the tears from coming into her eyes. At last she allowed the truth to take hold. She loved him.

She wasn’t ‘your grace’ anymore. “I’ve told you to use my name when we are alone.” He smiled indulgently.

“Come inside, Khaleesi.” He opened the door for her, and she followed him inside.

“What can I do for you Daenerys?” He asked her while removing his cloak and hanging it on a hook. He now stood in front of her, removing his armor, leaving his leather jerkin on, the way it had been in the tent on the road to Winterfell.

She waited until he set aside the last of his armor, then stepped closer, almost touching him and took his hands, lowering her gaze to them, “For years, the only love I knew was Viserys’ cruel mockery of it. Then Drogo’s rough handling, my worth determined by how strong I could be. But that isn’t love is it?” She tightened her hold on his hands, he responded in kind, enough to make her feel it, but not enough to hurt her. “Love grows, day by day, it forgives mistakes, it accepts the faults and celebrates the virtues. True love doesn’t ask for anything but for the other’s happiness.” A tear rolled down her cheek, landing on the back of his hand. “Being with the one you love makes the world brighter, it makes life worth living.” She looked up into his eyes, surprised to see him smiling proudly at her despite the sheen in his own eyes.

“It feels like coming home, doesn’t it?”

“Aye. It does.” He said, gently brushing aside a tear with the back of his fingers.

“Kiss me.”

He blinked. He gave her a quick once over with his eyes, lingering over her face, he swallowed.

“Are you certain it is wise to ask someone else to kiss you when you currently with someone else? Namely someone who is our ally in the North?”

Now it was her turn to blink. “The last person I slept with was Daario Naharis. Jon did want to bed me, but thankfully Tyrion and Varys interrupted before he could.”

He tilted his head, and she could almost see the wheels turning in his head, “Tyrion forgot to tell me that.” He grumbled.

“No matter.”

A moment of silence, the air heavy with unsaid things.

“Do you love me Ser?”

He held her gaze, “I’ll always love you.”

She raised herself on her toes, to bring her lips to his own, but he remained just out of reach.

“Forgive for making you wait so long, Jorah.”

“Khaleesi-”

“I love you, my sweet bear. It’s always been you, from the day you gave me those books, and it has only grown since. It scared me at first, your love for me, but no longer. Now come, kiss me.”

He did, cupping her face and the back of her head, his beard scratchy, his lips soft, his mouth impossibly sweet as it opens for her.

In their kiss was all their years together, all the pain they had felt and all their joy. It stopped the world and made her heart race, taking away the air from her lungs but breathing new life into her. It took away all her sorrow and pain, and she never wanted to leave his embrace. She would leave in the morning, the reality of her situation catching up with her, but the night, the glorious sacred night belonged to them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, no smut. The chapter ended up being too long so I had to shift everything after the kiss to the next one. I tried moving the Jaime/Brienne part, but it didn't fit with the continuity.
> 
> Do read and review.  
> Ps. I'm sorry, but that was the best I could do for saving the Bran/Meera ship that d&d blew out of the water and scattered around the globe.


	14. Stay with me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those who are meant to be... come together eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for making all my readers wait so long for this chapter.   
> I hope it satisfies you all.
> 
> Bran/Meera fans will certainly enjoy...  
> Also this chapter contains hints for the future of this story... Let's see of you can spot them!
> 
> Do comment and let me know that this story has not been forgotten yet!

He kissed her sweetly, holding her firmly but still gently. He was so gentle with her. Slowly, his tongue entered her mouth, brushing against hers, but never demanding.

Finally, they broke apart gasping for air. He leaned down, touching his forehead to hers.

“You are a wonderful kisser.”

He chuckled, “I’m experienced.”

“Take me to bed.” She breathed against his lips.

“Gladly.” He said, picking her up in his arms. He laid her on the bed and deftly removed her boots, then toed off his own, slowly climbing on top of her. She began work on the fastenings of his outer jerkin as he kissed her neck reached behind her head to undo her braids. She threw it aside and moved to get rid of his woolen undershirt, silently cursing his many layers of clothing as he ran one hand through her hair, the other holding him steady on top of her. But as she made to remove it, he pulled away from her, and sat back.

She sat up as well. “What is it?”

“I… well, I’m scarred. Quite badly. It’s… it’s not something you should see.” He stammered uncharacteristically.

She moved closer to him, resting her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him softly. “Your scars won’t frighten me. Let me see.”

He tilted his head back slightly and let her undo the ties. She let the shirt fall away and saw the extent of damage greyscale had done to him. It covered his left arm, chest and stomach, right up to his collarbones and down to below his navel, and spread to his shoulder and back, the edges touching the nape of his neck. One particular gnarly knot of scarring on the left side of his chest, near his heart looked to her like a dragon’s claw print.

She kissed it softly and ran her hands over him. His eyes were still screwed shut and his brow furrowed. She knew just what to say.

“There are times when I look at you, and I can’t believe you’re real.” She meant it. Coming back to her, after everything, it was impossible. Only he could have done it.

His eyes snapped open and before she could say anything else he pushed her back onto the bed, kissing her and began to undo the hooks of her dress, while she pulled off his breeches.

For all his skill and patience, Ser Jorah Mormont could not manage to undo the many hooks of her dress.

“Why the fuck are there so many?”

She laughed, “Just rip it off.”

He did, roughly, in one swift move and threw it aside, growling like a bear.

“You’re beautiful.” He said, looking over her.

“You’ve seen me naked before.”

“Not like this, spread out under me, only for me.”

Whether she pulled him down, or he leaned towards her was a mystery. All she knew was that he worshipped her with his hands and mouth, making her forget every worry in a way Drogo never did, stirring pleasure in a way Daario never could. In his bed, trapped under him, she felt content in a way she couldn’t remember feeling.

She tried her best to return his devotion, running her hands gently over the scars, tracing their edges, kissing him softly, on his lips, on his face, his neck, his shoulder, wherever she could reach and feeling him tremble with pleasure.

Eventually, she reached down and had him divested of his last piece of clothing. He was well endowed, and quite ready for her, as she was for him.

With a silent communication they had perfected years ago, he kissed her once more, then entered her, slowly, enjoying every sensation and making sure she did too. She wrapped her arms around his neck, in those soft, greying but still golden curls of his and pulled him down. He nuzzled her neck, and his hands worked on her breasts all the while buried within her, filling her not just physically, but in every way imaginable.

“Why did we wait so long to do this?” She gasped as he pulled out and thrust into her again.

“We? I’ve been ready for years.” He growled and then did something she didn’t think he would. He bit her neck, not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough that it would leave a mark in the morning.

After that everything was a blur to her, their coupling slow and steady, he drew her out, bringing her to the edge, such that when they finally went over it, she lost herself in him. He lay on top of her, his face buried in her neck, both of them panting.

He raised himself on his elbows, brushing hair out of her face. “I don’t suppose that will be happening again?” He sounded resigned, a direct consequence of her rejecting him too many times.

She smiled and pushed him down, pinning him under her. “Lie back lover.”

Several rounds and positions later, when they were both too tired to do anything but lie facing each other, gazing tenderly, he asked her something that had been bothering him.

“Will I wake up in the morning and think of tonight as a dream?”

She stroked his cheek, “If it were in my hand, I would never leave.”

“But you will have to. A queen must be mindful of her duty.”

She ignored the pang she felt at that. He didn’t know what she had discovered today. He didn’t know how Viserys had come to mock her after Rhaegar’s past actions pulled the earth out from under her.

She wanted to tell him, but as she opened her mouth, she remembered the oath Sansa had taken from her and given in return- the knowledge of Jon’s true heritage will not leave this room. The Starks could not reveal it to their bannermen, but neither could she.

She had been effectively isolated from her own advisors.

Tears pricked at her eyes at the injustice. At the futility of her efforts, at how alone she had been left even as she lay naked with the man who had taught her what love was.

“Khaleesi…” Jorah leaned over to her, and kissed her temple softly, “Do not cry my love.”

“Never leave me.”

“I am sworn to obey you, to serve. I will die for you if need be. I will never abandon you.”

She raised herself on one elbow and looked him in the eye, serious, needing to know, “Even if it means going against your family?”

Something flickered in his eyes, a hint of surprise and pain that came out in the furrow of his forehead and the pursing of his lips. He didn’t answer, instead looking at her, searching for the source of her question. He understood her too well, could he discover the truth without her even saying it?

He tilted his head, a calm and peaceful look coming over his features.

“I trust,” he emphasized the word, “that you care enough about me to not have me pick up arms against my own kin.”

He had her there. Of all the things she would do, of all the pain she had already caused him, she could not hurt him like that.

But the choice might not be hers to make.

“Besides, while I understand that Lady Sansa and you are too alike to get along, I assure you, your advisors will handle whatever difficulty comes in your path. You are not alone.”

She smiled, hoping against all odds that the worst would not come to pass. “Then let us rest, for tomorrow is a long day.”

* * *

In another part of Winterfell, Bran Stark lay in bed, as bare as he was on the day of his birth, panting, next to a young woman who made him remember what it was to be himself.

“Now I understand what it is to be a man.”

Meera laughed, and for the first time in a long time, so did Bran. She placed her hand on his chest, right above his racing heart.

Bran covered it with his own. “I’m sorry.”

Meera smiled while covering them with blankets to keep warm against the cold. “You are apologizing quite a lot.”

He turned his head towards her. “Even now you ended up doing all the work.”

She kissed his cheek. “In case you didn’t notice, I quite enjoyed it.”

“Oh, I noticed. Crippled I may be, but blind and deaf I am not.”

Meera raised herself on her elbow, and stroked his cheek, “You sound more like yourself now. I hate that hollow voice you’ve had since you warged into that Wierwood near the Wall.”

_Hollow voice… hollow…_

Bran raised himself as much as he could on his arms. “Hollow… just like the base of the Wierwood where we found the last Three-eyed Raven.”

Meera sat up as well, covering her chest with a blanket. “What do you mean?”

“The Raven and I were in the past together. Then he disappeared into a cloud of black smoke. I think that was the moment he was killed by the Night King. Hodor ended up the way he did because I warged into him while I was in the past with his younger self. What if, my forgetting who I was had something to do with the Raven’s death?”

“Bran, are you saying that he… warged into you before dying?”

Bran nodded, determined, “Only one way to find out.”

He lay back down, holding Meera’s eyes, silently promising himself that he would not get lost in the past, not again, not while he still had her.

After all, the old man in the tree had told him that he would not end up like him. So why should Brandon Stark, named after not just his uncle, but the man who established their family and the oldest Kingdom in Westeros, be trapped?

He went back to that day, the one they were watching when the Night King came to attack them. The Raven was standing in the courtyard of Winterfell, alone. The courtyard was empty, with light snow falling all around them. He turned to face Bran with a smile.

_I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out young wolf._

“What have you done to me?”

_Nothing as bad as what you did to poor Wylas._

Bran flinched back as if burnt, “I never meant to hurt Hodor. I never wanted Jojen dead, or Summer either.”

_Summer is over, the cold winds blow, the white snows fall, and the lone shall die, while the pack survives._

“That’s what father used to say, now Rickon says it.”

The raven did not reply, instead he raised his hand, and Bran was thrown into a patchwork of images and sounds.

An entire fleet burning, by a black dragon. The water was black and the Red Keep was visible in the distance. Then it changed, a young warrior, holding Longclaw, cutting through men to enter what could only be the Iron Islands. Near him was another, with a flaming sword and red robes.

He saw King’s landing, Unsullied standing in front of the Lannister army, bells ringing, from those bells, he saw the bells on Winterfell’s towers, ringing from dawn to dusk to announce the birth of his eldest sister. 

He saw the Wall collapse, and heard horns blowing, the dragon’s breath an icy blue, then he saw the Iron Throne being forged, and heard dragons roaring, the dragon’s breath an inferno.

At last, he once again witnessed the creation of the Night King, then he saw the White Walkers turn a child into one of them. Then, he spun around and around, each time witnessing the same pattern, in different places, sometimes created by the children of the forest, other times by the Walkers. 

Once he saw them all, he was back in front of the Raven, except this time, they stood in the Godswood, near the spring in front of the Wierwood.

“You showed me the future and the past.”

_Tell her, one must look back, to move forward. Tell him, his is the song of ice and fire._

“I don’t understand. Please, speak plainly. No more riddles, no more half visions, no more lies. I beg you, just tell me what to do.”

_You are a Stark. A wolf who howls in the depths of Winter. Frozen already, you can endure, but to melt the snows, fire must rain from the sky._

Another vision, Daenerys emerging from the burning ruin of Vaes Dothrak, Jon waking up gasping for air he should not have. 

“I see. Alone we die, together we survive.”

_You survived the fall from that tower, was it enough?_

Bran looked down to see the snow at the edge of the stream melt and watched his younger self crawl using his hands to glance at the red comet’s reflection. “No. Surviving was the worst thing that happened to me. Or so I thought, until I learnt how to fly.”

_Ah yes, to fly on the winds of time and look, is a great joy. To watch everything, preserve knowledge, and pass it on, is your purpose. Death he has touched, to stand against it, is his purpose, for he is the shield that guards the realms of men. She is fire made flesh, emerging from the ashes, stronger, to protect all those who come under her wings._

And Bran could see it, the glorious future, full of peace and prosperity, one they could have, if they let go of the past hurts and held onto the lessons. It was theirs for the taking, if they would choose love and forgiveness, instead of hate and condemnation.

“I understand.”

_Then why are you still here?_

When Bran came back to himself, it was to see Meera, looking down at him with concern, stroking his hair gently. Her voice was fearful as she asked, “Bran?”

He cupped her face and kissed her.

* * *

Jorah tugged at the furs Daenerys was buried under, “Get up. We miss breakfast, and people will talk.”

She pulled back and burrowed deeper down. “Where is my dress?”

Silence.

She sat up to see him holding it carefully in his hands, his expression absolutely mortified.

She sighed. So much for trying to keep last night between them.

“Go find Missandei. Ask her to bring another dress for me here.”

Jorah shifted his stance, laying her partly ruined dress on the bed. She examined it, only the hooks were damaged, Missandei could stitch it up.

“She’ll know. And Grey Worm too.”

“Would that be so bad?”

“They might have to lie about it. That would be bad.”

Daenerys ran a hand through her hair, slowly undoing some tangles, “We shall cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now, I need clothes, so unless you plan on dressing me in your own, I suggest you go find Missandei.”

Jorah quickly put on his armor and did as she told.

He found Missandei and Grey Worm in a secluded spot behind the library. He wouldn’t have found them, not if he hadn’t heard two small children talking about the ‘black skinned foreigners.’

Missandei looked upset and was telling Grey Worm something. His reply made her smile, in turn, her lover’s smile came out.

“Good morning.”

They turned to him, their smiles still in place.

“There is nothing good about this morning.” Said Grey Worm.

Missandei looped her arm through Grey Worm’s and said suggestively, “I can think of a few things that would make it good.”

He stepped closer and lowered his voice slightly, after checking that they were alone. “Missandei, our Queen requires you to bring her a dress for the day.”

Missandei blinked, “They are all in her room.”

Jorah felt his ears redden, and avoided the confused look Grey Worm was giving him. He found himself unable to meet their eyes as he stated, “She is not in her room.” And hoped that she would understand what he was trying to tell her.

A moment of absolute stillness, Jorah stood with his head bowed desperately trying to conceal his mortification, and fearing their judgement.

Then, Missandei softly kissed his cheek and said, “Took you two long enough.”

Touched, and a bit surprised, he swallowed, and nodded to her, while she asked Grey Worm to keep him occupied while she attended to Daenerys.

After she left, Jorah attempted to divert conversation. “Should I talk to Lord Stark about what those children said to you?”

Grey Worm frowned. “They did not say anything. They were sitting and talking and Missandei smiled at them and wished them ‘good morning’. They looked at her with disgust and walked away.”

Jorah sighed, “That’s even worse. Let me talk to the Stark boy. The common folk will listen to him.”

“The common folk look at us the way the masters did. Like we are vermin. They do not like us.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why sorry? You have never treated us as lesser than you.”

“Regardless, as a Northerner myself, I feel responsible for it. Let us find the Warden and tell him how his guests are treated.”

Grey Worm waved off his suggestion, “That boy and his sister come watch the Unsullied train every day, I will talk to him then. Now tell me, did you go to her or did she come to you?”

Jorah colored, and mumbled, “She came to me.”

“Missandei also came to me. I would never have gone to her.”

“You’re a good man, have faith in yourself my friend.”

“You never take your own advice. You are a good man, one with stones and pillar. Did you use them properly last night?”

“You spend far too much time with Tyrion!” Jorah managed to sputter out, completely red faced. He hoped no one had heard them.

Grey Worm tilted his head, seemingly thinking, then nodded stiffly. “Tyrion and Daario Naharis taught me that it is normal for men to talk about these things with each other.”

Jorah rubbed a hand over his face, “Better to have these talks with other men than to ask a woman, but it is not polite conversation. Over a few cups of wine by a fireside is acceptable, first thing in the morning is not. At least, not among those of our station.” He added the last part, suddenly mindful of the fact that he was highborn, and raised for courts rather than shoddy taverns. Most men did not share his sense for modesty and decency.

They spoke some more as friends and as one commander to another, both unaware of a faceless girl watching from the rafters above.

* * *

“You look strong. More like Theon.”

Theon brushed back hair from his face. “And you look happy. More like Sansa Stark.”

Sansa tilted her head back. “I _am_ Sansa Stark.”

“I know.” He grew quiet again. Until an Unsullied passed by him, greeting him.

“Captain Greyjoy.”

Theon responded by standing and nodding at him. “Red Flea.”

Once he left Theon sat back down.

“How do you know the Unsullied?”

Theon looked at her slightly confused. “Red Flea sailed to Westeros on the ship I commanded. We would talk and train on the decks and later on Dragonstone when we first arrived. He’s taught me more about fighting with spears than Ser Rodrik ever did.”

Sansa sighed in frustration.

Theon swallowed, “They seem dull as rocks at first, but they’re actually quite interesting. And strong.” He looked beyond her, “They were forcibly taken from their homes, in some cases given away like unwanted dogs, castrated as boys, starved, beaten, their names taken from them and replaced with names of vermin. The masters broke them all into a thousand pieces, then forged those pieces together into weapons, their only purpose in life- to obey their master.”

By now Sansa was staring at him, speechless, understanding what he would not say, she had been Ramsey’s prisoner as well.

“That is, until the day Daenerys freed them. She bought them, then ordered them to kill the masters. Then she freed them, and gave them the choice of leaving or joining her. Not one left, and none regret it. From there, they freed all the Slaves in Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen.”

“Arya said it’s called Dragon’s Bay now.”

Theon nodded, “It is. You know, Red Flea even has a woman waiting for him back in Meereen. He says that after he wins Daenerys the Iron Throne, he will go fetch her.”

“You support her as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“Yara is my Queen. Yara, who made a pledge to Daenerys. So yes, I do.”

Sansa looked around the courtyard, watching the Northerners, the Southern soldiers of the Reach, the Knights of the Vale and the just arrived Riverland fighters all walk around, the Unsullied and the Dothraki not standing out as much now that fighters from four of the Seven Kingdoms were present. “Why? You haven’t known her that long, she wasn’t raised in Westeros, why do you all want her to rule you?”

Theon shrugged. “She’ll make a good Queen.”

“How do you know that?”

Theon stood up and brushed down his breeches, “She treats the lowest of the low with dignity. And as Yara, who spent a lot of time with Daenerys, has told me, she doesn’t want to be Queen for power’s sake, she believes the only reason the Gods made Kings and Queens is to improve the lives of the least fortunate ones.”

Sansa stood up as well. “You believe her? People are only that good in stories. The world is cruel and ruthless, and kindness does not last. Songs and stories are just that, songs and stories.”

Theon looked at her sadly, “They’ve broken you haven’t they? Cersei, Baelish, Ramsay, they took away what you loved most. Songs and stories are written on the truth.”

Sansa shook her head and left him standing there, while a young Warden stood above on the battlements, looking sadly at his sister.

* * *

_Rhaegal will need his rider to guide him._

The sentence was still ringing in her ears, bringing the events of the day past to the forefront. The Red Priestesses claimed that the night was dark and full of terrors, but her night had been blissful in the arms of her great bear, but dawn brought with it a reminder of those she had bought with her were outsiders, and the painful reality that her life’s goal was based on a lie.

_Rhaegal will need his rider._

Rhaegal, her second and most playful son, the one she named after brother Rhaegar, had finally chosen a rider. A rider who was a hidden Targaryen, the son of his namesake.

The three-eyed raven had seen and chosen to reveal it at the first of many strategy meetings that would contain the Lannister and Tarly Brothers, the Starks, their Tully Uncle, her entire council, Theon, Lord Royce from the Vale, and the rest of the bannermen from the North, the Reach, the Vale and the Riverlands as an audience.

Their strategy involved having one dragon engage the undead Viserion, the other providing cover for the troops on the ground. It was in contradiction to Jon’s initial plan to have both dragons attack the mounted Night King. A contradiction that Ser Jorah provided. 

“If both the dragon’s engage the Night King, the troops on the ground are left defenseless against the assault of wights led by the Walkers. Their army is at least a half a million strong, having undead giants and mammoths, and probably those frozen snow bears and whatnot. Benjen told us that, you and your brother saw that. Twelve men took on one bear, three died. As you yourself said, it took the wights less than an hour to decimate Hardhome. The ones at the fist of the first men survived by sheer luck. If both dragons are tangling in the sky, chances are, by the time you kill the Night King, there won’t be any of us left alive. One dragon has to cover us, get rid of the giants and mammoths, and clear the path enough so that a group of the best warriors, wielding Dragonglass or Valyrian steel can go beyond the ranks of the wights, and kill a few Walkers to even out the odds.”

“Ser Jorah is right.” The voice of the crippled Stark stopped Jon from voicing any objections. “While killing the Night King will end the War, and that killing him will stop everyone of his soldiers, we cannot ignore his commanders on the ground. However, to enact this plan to its fullest extent, Rhaegal will need his rider to guide him.”

The fact that he then looked expectantly at her, instead of simply stating the truth about was surprising. After a few moments of silence, she admitted what she suspected since that day beyond the Wall, when without her command, Rhaegal had swooped down to catch Jon and Ser Jorah when they had tumbled from Drogon. That he was now bonded.

She could see Jon shift uncomfortably from the corner of her eye. She could also see that of her council, no one seemed particularly thrilled by the news. Varys and Tyrion shared a look that spoke of another meeting soon, Grey Worm’s usual glower seemed to be directed specifically at Jon, and Missandei lowered her head hiding her frown, while Jorah was looking at her, concerned by her obvious discomfort at handing over one of her children.

Regardless of all that, here they stood now, waiting outside the gates of Winterfell, where almost everyone had come to watch the Bastard of Winterfell claim a dragon. They stood inside the gates, at the half dug trenches, up on the battlements, trying to remain inconspicuous, but their curiosity was too great.

Like always, Daenerys stood much further ahead in a clearing. At her command, Drogon and Rhaegal swooped down and landed with loud shrieks. Both folded their wings at their sides and lowered their heads to her with soft croons, shamelessly demanding her affection. She stroked them, first her own mount, the tempestuous Drogon, and then the gentler Rhaegal while beckoning Jon closer.

Jon was still a fair distance away when Rhaegal reared and menacingly stalked towards him. Jon stopped and stood tall as he did that day when Drogon approached him. Rhaegal however, seemed more angry than curious, he stood on his hind legs, flaring his wings, making himself as large as possible while raising his head to the heavens and roaring loud enough to shake her bones. Several of the bystanders fell to the ground in fear, even Jon looked unsure, and for a moment she felt such anger radiate from Rhaegal that she truly feared that he would burn Jon where he stood.

But she could yell at Jon to run, Rhaegal’s roar faded into the silence of the snow-covered land and he lowered himself, ready to be mounted.

As Jon Snow, or rather Aegon Targaryen, gracelessly climbed onto Rhaegal’s back, hesitant cheers broke out among the northerners. Was it not these men who cowered in fear when her children first arrived? Furious, and wounded far too deeply, she turned her back to them and flew off on Drogon.

Had she not been so troubled, perhaps she might have noticed the forlorn look Rhaegal cast towards Winterfell before flying after his brother. A look that was missed by everyone except its intended recipient- the man who had been the first to kneel when dawn had broken to the song of dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp... there's that.   
> I hope no one decides to kill me for that ending... all I would like to say is that things are not always what they seem. 
> 
> Do comment and let me know your thoughts! I love hearing from you folks!


	15. Knowledge of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Many secrets are held within the walls of Winterfell. It is time for some of them to be revealed.  
> Knowledge after all, grows when it is shared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I have nothing to say for myself.  
> My twice a week updating schedule has turned into a once month schedule which is very annoying for me as a writer. I can only imagine how disappointed my readers are at this point.  
> Hopefully you all are still loyal and around, and will continue to read this work till the end.
> 
> Here you go, some mystical mojo to be seen in this chapter.

Ser Clancey has been sworn to her family for years, since he was a boy, few years before she was born. She has admired him from the first. The knight was always gentlest with her.

She remembered he looked quite handsome and proud the day Jorah announced that Clancey was now Ser Clancey.

He had looked even more handsome and strong when they had reunited outside the gates of Winterfell.

She remembered his well wishes to her, when her mother had asked him to stay behind and watch over their family while Garrow and his sons, Theolin and Cormac marched south with them. Of all their loyal guards, it was only Clancey who remained, now the Master at Arms. Of the fierce daughters of Maege Mormont, it was she who was the heir now, Lady Lyra Mormont.

They had spoken last evening at length while Jorah had watched over Jayden, his soft words and dark eyes capturing her soul last night.

_I am grateful that you have survived Lady Lyra._

Her mother’s early morning warning was also souring her heart.

_Be mindful of your station Lyra._

Her mother had five bastard daughters; she truly wasn’t the person to talk about ‘station’. Jorah one the other hand, was trueborn and as noble as they come. He had not noticed anything amiss, but if he had, he might not have been pleased.

And so, she thought to talk to him before Maege could let anything slip.

Only to find, Daenerys Targaryen laying in his bed, naked as her nameday, covered in furs.

Lyra Mormont stood, scowling suspiciously at Daenerys, with her hand on a longsword strapped to her waist.

Before Daenerys could say anything, Lyra growled dangerously at her. “Is this how you won my cousin’s loyalty?”

Daenerys should have been angry at being called a charlatan, but it was something else that offended her, “If not in me, then at least have some faith in Jorah!”

That was enough to make Lyra remove her hand from her sword, and drop her scowl. “He’s been tricked by a beautiful face before.”

Daenerys sighed, pulling the furs tighter to shield herself from Lyra’s gaze. “I know.” She began quietly, “But whatever you may think of me, I have not tricked him. Last night was our first night together. I was married and with the child of another man, both dead now, when he first gave me his loyalty.”

Despite not knowing her, Lyra felt her honesty. “I see. If I may ask, why now?”

Daenerys waved one hand around and said, “With everything that has happened and what is coming… well, there’s no harm in giving into love.”

Lyra turned thoughtful, “And Jorah is agreeable to abandoning all semblance of propriety in sleeping with a woman he is sworn to protect?”

“Judging by last night, I would have to say yes.”

Lyra smirked. She turned to leave, deciding that with the end of the world approaching there was no harm to be done by this, “I was never here, but remember this, on Jorah’s request my mother has decided to give you an opportunity to prove your worth as a leader. I hope you know what you are doing.”

As the door closed behind her, she heard Daenerys sigh, “So do I.”

Outside though, Lyra was smiling, for without even intending to, without saying a word to her, her cousin had given her a wonderful gift.

* * *

“I don’t recall you ever telling me about Rhaegal having bonded.” Tyrion was relentlessly pacing while drinking. Under normal circumstances Daenerys would tell him off for drinking too much. But she could not bring herself to be bothered about it. First Lyra Mormont, then Rhaegal’s bonding, it was past noon, but the day had been long enough already.

She shifted in her seat, resisting the urge to pull up her legs to her chest, “I wasn’t sure if he had bonded. I had a suspicion.”

Tyrion slammed his goblet on the small table and whirled to face her. “I understand you are angry at me due to what happened with Cersei. But that does not mean you will simply stop telling us of these things. You are the Mother of dragons. And now, one of your dragons is under the command of the bastard of Winterfell of all people. With Mormont’s suspicions about Jon Snow’s intentions, the mutual distrust and animosity between the northerners and our Essoi troops, on top of which Cersei double crossing us, despite the fact that Varys’s little birds had claimed that the Westerlands armies were marching North under Jaime’s command, which means that his spy network is compromised, and Sansa wanting us gone from her homeland, we are, as of now, well and truly fucked. Oh, did I mention that the dead are coming to feast on us?”

Daenerys lay a hand over her eyes. “Surely there must be some good news in all of this?”

Tyrion refilled his goblet, and downed it. He then continued in a much calmer tone. “We have the support of the Reach; Dickon Tarly is loyal to you. Yara Greyjoy might be able to capture the Iron Islands in your name, as long as Euron remains occupied in King’s Landing. It will give us access to the ports on the Western shore of Westeros. That’s about it.”

Daenerys was quiet for a moment. “None of it matters.”

Varys made to interrupt, but Daenerys continued over him, “Not until the dead are dealt with. But do keep track, in case we somehow do manage to win.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Everyone is dismissed.” As everyone started to leave, Daenerys called out, “Not you Jorah.”

Jorah turned around with a smile, once they were alone, he spoke. “I remember telling you yesterday about Tyrion’s mind. He is quite sharp to have kept track of all our problems, and you have Dickon Tarly thanks to him.”

Daenerys sighed and pulled up her knees to her chest, waving away his words. “There is something you should know.”

And now here came the conversation she dreaded. She told him how she had been caught naked in his bed by his cousin.

Jorah’s face was an alarming shade of red as he whispered harshly, “Lyra caught you?!”

Daenerys got up from the chair and moved to the window, “It’s not as bad you’d think.”

Jorah passed a hand over his eyes, “Not as bad… good gods, my little sister caught you! She might not say anything to you or Maege, but she will most certainly murder me!”

Daenerys tilted her head at the scene outside her window. “I believe she is occupied with other concerns. Come here and look.”

Outside the window, Jorah saw Lyra boldly take hold of Ser Clancey’s hand. The knight looked at their clasped hands and gently shook his head. Before walking away though, he laid a gentle kiss on her lips.

“I’m going to kill that bastard.”

“Jorah… no.”

* * *

“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was trying to avoid the Hound when I heard those children mutter about the black-skinned outsiders so I went to check. And I told you, I was too high up to make out what they were talking about, except that Ser Jorah was saying something about the armies and the trenches.”

Rickon walked next to his sister, noting that he was now taller than Arya. “Still, it would have been better if you had left instead of watching them.”

“We can’t blindly trust them. And you were spying on Theon and Sansa when I came to fetch you for the meeting.”

Rickon coloured, “I wasn’t spying. I didn’t hear anything; I just went to check if Theon was fine when I saw that he and Sansa were arguing about something. I didn’t hear about what, nor do I want to know.”

“We could ask Bran.”

“If it is something concerning, Bran will tell us himself. Ah, here we are.”

The younger Stark siblings stepped into the library and made their way to the books kept on dragons.

After an hour of scouring through the available books, they reached the same conclusion.

“See, I told you. Even though the they say that a dragon has been claimed, it is actually the dragon that does the choosing.” Arya told Rickon while stacking the books up.

“So that means your brother has been chosen by Rhaegal.”

They turned around to see Ser Jorah standing at the end of the bookshelves. He inclined his head minutely to them.

“My apologies, Lord and Lady Stark, I did not intend to intrude, but overheard when I stepped inside.”

Rickon stepped closer, “Just call me Rickon. And no, you did not interrupt. I had intended to speak with you anyway.”

Ser Jorah raised an eyebrow, seemingly amused by the young Lord.

Of all of Daenerys’s council, Ser Jorah seemed the most trustworthy, even to Sansa. He was a northerner, a Mormont at that. Although, from what Arya and Bran had observed, other than Varys, Daenerys and her council had yet to give any reason to doubt them.

“It came to my attention this morning that some children misbehaved with the Unsullied Commander. I am pleased to inform you that I have conveyed my disapproval to them.”

“That is very kind of you. You are also quite formal, my Lord. And quite close with my cousin.”

Arya snickered, while Rickon blushed. “She is a dear friend.” He mumbled.

Ser Jorah smiled indulgently, “I am sure. But that is not why I came to the library. You see, despite being in the company of the dragons since they were small enough to fit in my palms, there are some things, I do not quite understand about them.”

Arya saw the chance for what it was, an opportunity to learn more about the dragons and to dig up some information.

She gestured to some chairs and invited Ser Jorah to sit with them.

What she did not know was that Sansa had done the same with Daenerys at that precise moment.

* * *

“Come, have a seat.”

Yesterday, she had commanded Sansa, now she was being commanded. For now, she swallowed her wounded pride. Before she could say anything, Sansa continued, “I am grateful for your assistance in this battle against the White Walkers, and thank you for it. I am sorry that I did not do so the moment you arrived; I should have.”

Daenerys ignored her words and went ahead with what she wanted to say.

“I wish to continue our conversation from before Jon interrupted us.”

Sansa inclined her head, “I’m not sure what more is to be said, but carry on.”

“There is quite a lot to be said. For one, I would like to stop running in circles and outright ask you the exact cause of your dislike towards me. As far as I am aware, I have done nothing to cause such hostility on your part.”

“I have not been hostile-”

“Not openly, but certainly not welcoming either.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes and tapped the table with her fingertips for a moment before taking a deep breath and answering.

“I do not hate you. I hate that you are here to conquer the North like your ancestors. Some years ago, after my father was beheaded at the command of Joffrey, the Northern Lords foreswore him and the Iron Throne, and declared my eldest brother Robb Stark as the King in the North. Robb decreed that the Northern Lands would be free from the day he was crowned till the end of time. Robb might be dead but his promise need not be. Beyond that, not one of my family has any interest in what happens with the rest of the realm.”

“I see. Tell me, Jon was declared the next Stark King after your brother Robb, was he not? He bent the knee.”

“He gave up a crown that was not his to give, that too without good reason. And by law Robb’s heirs are Bran and Rickon, Bran was thought dead and Rickon too young when Jon was handed the crown. Jon was to keep the crown until Rickon came of age.”

“And yet, Rickon is the Warden and the Lord.” Daenerys smirked at having caught her opponent in her own words.

Sansa’s mouth tightened around the corners. “He is, and he is doing much better than I would have imagined. But then, I suppose brothers do the most unexpected things every now and then.”

The casual words and the sharp smile hit their mark; the score was now even.

“Our families are rather complicated.” At least, thought Daenerys, if not by virtue of my hollow crown, then perhaps by my sharp wit I can have your respect.

“A sad thing to have in common.” This time Sansa’s small smile was genuine. There was a shift in the room, one that made Daenerys think that if they had not been in their respective positions, they might have gotten along. Dickon Tarly seemed to believe that Margaery Tyrell would have certainly liked her since Olena had, and Margaery had been Sansa’s only friend for a time. 

And if Daenerys could neutralise an enemy without dragon fire, well the chance was worth it. “We have other things in common, for example, our personal guards are perhaps our greatest advisors, as I said yesterday.”

“I suppose that is true.” After a pause she added, “You don’t seem very disappointed to know that Jon is averse to any relation between you two now that you are related. Just so you know, he would not have courted you had he known of your relation. I will ask him to properly apologise for it, if you feel your honour has been slighted.”

Daenerys blinked, “You think I’m in love with him?”

Now it was Sansa’s turn to blink, she added a tilt of her head as well. “Are you not?”

Perhaps it was being caught by Lyra in the morning, or perhaps her need to one up Sansa, or perhaps Daenerys was simply tired of hiding her love from herself for so long that she could not bring herself to resist and heed to reason.

“My heart belongs to another, one who has guarded me since my days in Essos. I allowed Jon’s feeble advances out of courtesy.”

Sansa for all her good manners could not hide her surprise, “One of your soldiers, I must say I’m surprised.” And she sounded surprised too, Daenerys had finally left her speechless. Enough that Sansa absently shuffled the parchments before her to cover her reaction.

But Daenerys had seen it, and it made her want to shout from the highest tower in Winterfell, to everyone who could hear, as loud as she could, who she loved, who made her the happiest, just to watch them be awestruck by the strength of their bond, for them to marvel at the existence of something so pure, so perfect in a world that was filled with cruelty and schemes and people who were selfish and brutal.

Before she could fall prey to her desires, she swiftly got up and left with a nod, having earned the respect of her opponent and feeling that perhaps not all was lost.

* * *

“So, to sum up, a dragon chooses their own rider, and would never let anyone other than said rider to mount them, but will take on extra passengers if their rider is already mounted?”

Arya nodded, “Aye. That is what happened beyond the Wall, right?”

“It is. Also, if the rider has dismounted, but the extra passenger has not, what would the dragon do?”

Rickon answered, “Perhaps shake them off like Silverwing was known to do.”

“Or burn them like Sunfyre did when another knight tried to mount him after he had chosen his rider.” Arya added. “Tell me Ser Jorah, were you not present when Drogon chose your Queen as his rider?”

“I was Lady Arya, but I believe he had chosen her long before that. Drogon, since the day of his birth, has always been closer to his mother than his brothers.”

“What was it like, raising dragons?”

Jorah smiled indulgently, “Quite difficult. One minute they would come and hop on my shoulder, rubbing their small heads against my bearded cheek, the next they would try to chew off my ear. Drogon was always the largest, the most aggressive, a proper beast that one. Viserion, the youngest as he hatched last, was the sweetest of the lot, he would curl up and sleep while his brothers would hunt and fight each other. Rhaegal, the middle brother as her Grace calls him, has always been somewhere between the two. More balanced, more playful too.”

 _And the one most receptive to me._ Viserion and Drogon liked him well enough to not mind his presence, but Rhaegal was the first to come sniffing at his boots and the first to use his sword belt as something to teeth on. His green scales at their darkest spots reminded Jorah of the evergreen pines and spruce of Bear Island.

Once, shortly before they left Qarth, Rhaegal had gotten into a sparring match with a stray cat. He had lost, and chosen to climb atop the highest ledge at their temporary residence. After an hour of unsuccessful coaxing, Daenerys had asked some servants to climb up and bring them down. No one succeeded, until Jorah entered the courtyard. Rhaegal saw him and swooped down onto his shoulder, and started nipping at the drawstrings of his shirt. Daenerys had quickly taken him off him and apologised for his behaviour.

But he wondered…

“Thank you for your assistance, now if you’ll excuse me.”

* * *

She was walking towards her chambers, via a lesser used servants’ path to avoid scrutiny, contemplating going on a long flight with Drogon when a bark caught her attention. It was a direwolf, as large as Ghost. But it was not Ghost. This was one had very dark grey fur, it might look black at night time. The wolf stood at the beginning of the path towards the Winterfell Godswood.

She had not yet ventured near that area, thinking the Northern Gods would be no more welcoming than the people who prayed to them. But something in the Direwolf’s eyes bade her to follow. It turned and walked ahead, while she followed. She stopped a few moments later when she spotted what the wolf had led her to. Or rather whom.

As he petted the animal, Bran Stark called out to her.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, Your Grace.”

Fire filled her belly once more.

“Drop the farce. We both know the truth.”

The crippled boy turned his head towards her, “I am speaking the truth. If you could please come closer, I promise you, I mean you no harm.” He punctuated his last words with a wave of his hand that sent the wolf running off deeper into the woods.

Daenerys approached the boy and his chair until she was standing beside the tree and him.

“We have not had the opportunity to speak much.”

“I think I have heard you speak enough.” It was Bran who discovered and revealed Jon’s parentage and Rhaegal’s choosing of a rider. So yes, Daenerys had most certainly heard enough of this boy’s talk.

“No, you haven’t. You have only heard me speak what I had to. The truth cannot be hidden forever. There was a reason to revealing Jon’s parentage, there was a reason to revealing that Rhaegal had a rider. And there is a reason I wished to speak to you alone, your Grace.”

“Clearly respect is not that reason. Why are you so intent on mocking me with that title?”

“I am not mocking you. The Iron Throne is yours, for no other Targaryen has claimed it.” He smiled; she was certain it was the first time she had seen him do that.

She meant to sound confident, but instead just sounded tired. “I am not the enemy here Brandon Stark.”

“The Starks do not see you as an enemy, we have no desire to harm you, only to protect ourselves. Sansa saw you as a threat because she assumed that you had Jon wrapped around your finger due to his infatuation with you. Now that she knows that is not the case, she is not as bothered by your presence. And her desire for a free North is due to her love for our brother Robb. That, however is not the reason why I wished to speak with you.”

“Then what is?”

“Your brother Rhaegar.”

Daenerys took a deep breath and looked towards the Wierwood tree and it’s crying face. “I have no desire to hear about him.”

“Very well. Then I ask that you walk with me.”

She turned back to him, confused by his choice of words. He nodded towards the face.

“Place your hand on it and close your eyes.”

She hesitated. Was this some new trick? There wasn’t anyone around other than them.

Bran sighed. “Go on, no harm will come to you. It is called Greensight. I will show you some things and answer all your questions. If you are unsatisfied, or feel threatened, you can just open your eyes and leave. That is all, I swear it before the Old Gods, on my honour as a Stark.”

Daenerys did as he told. As her body crumpled against the tree, she found herself standing in a grand library.

“The library of the Red Keep. Many of your ancestors have added to it, most notably Aerys the first and Daeron the good.”

“You- you can walk!” Bran was walking towards her, using his own legs. As he stopped in front of her, she realised he was taller than Jon, Sansa even, only a little shorter than Jorah.

“Only in time. It is my spirit that walks, my body is still in the Godswood, as is yours. Come.” He turned and led her to where a young silver haired prince sat with books strewn about. 

“Rhaegar…” she breathed.

“There were certain prophecies, some false, some true that Rhaegar knew about. One promised the return of the dragons. Your great grandfather thought that he could bring that prophecy to realization.”

The scene before her melted and morphed. They were now standing at the edge of a circle around a crate that held seven dragon eggs, around which stood several pyromancers and warlocks. In the back, she could see her family members, all silver haired.

“He could not, it was not yet time for the dragon to wake. As they all burnt to death, Rhaegar was born with a vision in his mind’s eye.”

“Meaning?” She turned to him as they once again walked back into the library while Summerhall burnt behind them.

“Meaning exactly what I said. Rhaegar saw the future. He knew that there was a great war coming, and he knew that only fire would counter ice. Ice is death. The cold which freezes everything in place silently, it smothers everything, snuffing out life. Fire on the other hand is warmth, energy, light. Fire is life. In the East whom the Red priestess called Azor Ahai, the Warrior of Light, in Westeros, we know him as the Last Hero, the one who ended the Long Night.”

Rhaegar was now wandering the ruins of Summerhall, at times he would sit under a tree and go to sleep.

“Rhaegar found a companion to the prophecy that spoke of Azor Ahai’s return.”

“The one about the prince who was promised?”

“Yes. The witch had not lied to you. Only death can pay for life.” They now stood in Dorne. Making their way up to the Tower of Joy, they saw a pregnant young Lyanna Stark lie down as Rhaegar promised to return soon, saying that their son would be the one to save the realm when the time came, and that Rhaegar himself as King would ensure prosperity.

“The Starks have always endured winter. The wolves will howl no matter what. That is why the Northern houses follow our name, because when almost all was lost at the end of the Age of Heroes, it was Brandon Stark who took all the small houses and families under his banner and rebuilt the North.”

“The first King of Winter, Brandon the Builder. The one who built Winterfell and the Wall. I am aware. Of the three books I received, one was entirely a collection of historical tales from the North. What I don’t see is where your tale is leading.”

“Right here. Only a Stark can defeat the Night King.” He held up a hand to stop her question. “That story, I will reveal at the next war strategy meeting. Its contents are only for a select few, just as what I am telling you is for your ears. And Jon’s. I told him this morning. He’s off brooding in his room.”

The mental image brought a much-needed smile to her face.

“The prophecy Rhaegar discovered was vague, as were his dreams. You’ve had those dreams, too haven’t you? You saw the birth of your dragons; you saw the red wedding as well.”

“I… I dreamt of a man with a wolf’s head sitting at a feast, while various animals and objects lay in pools of blood, one of them a fish out of water, trying to swim in a river of blood.”

“My brother Robb, had his head removed and his direwolf’s head attached to it. The fish, my mother was a Tully.” He shook his head to clear it, and took them to Harrenhall.

“The prophecy said that only when ice and fire would come together, the Long Night would end for good and the endless Summer would begin. And in his dreams, he saw that only one who had been claimed by death, and been reborn could usher in a new dawn.”

As she watched Rhaegar go and place the crown of winter roses in Lyanna Stark’s lap, realisation struck her. “Jon had been killed, and he’s a Stark, but also a Targaryen.”

“And so here we are. Ultimately, Rhaegar’s plan worked. How fortunate that your brother truly fell in love with my aunt. And how fortunate that Melisandre was at Castle Black to revive him.”

The sights faded, and they were back in the Godswood. She stood up and brushed some snow from her clothes and hair. The sun was would be setting in a few minutes.

“Had anything gone differently, we might not have been here. Rhaegar was an idiot for thinking he could control it.” He nearly wiped out my entire house trying to write the future single-handedly. 

“Indeed. The castle of the world is built on so many stones, if even one is placed wrong, it is weak, and will eventually fall in on itself. Or it may remain standing for years, but be unable to truly protect those who reside within it. Ultimately these things, call it fate, destiny or chance, it is something greater than ourselves.”

“Each one of you Starks is full of surprises.” Daenerys at this point was just about done with this family.

Bran smirked. “What I wanted to tell you is this- though Jon is destined to be the one to kill the Night King, it is not his destiny to bring peace and prosperity. That belongs to another. One who is solely a champion of all life- free or enslaved, the high and low, for a dragon feeds on sheep and horse alike, and a Queen must serve them all.”

Daenerys tilted her head slightly, “You think it’s me who will rebuild the realm?”

“You know it is. You have always known. I only discovered it last night.”

Daenerys stepped closer to him, “So, that means we will win? That there will be an afterwards?”

“I don’t know. The past is already written, the ink is dry. The future however, has more outcomes than the leaves on all the trees of the world. I cannot say which one will come to pass, but as Tyrion once put it, one should prepare for the worst, and hope for the best.”

* * *

The sun had set, everyone had retreated indoors, either for dinner, or to complete their work by lamplight. It was the perfect time to sneak out, and since he had told everyone he was going to be late in the forge tonight inspecting the weapons, no one would look for him.

Jorah pulled his hood closer, and walked towards the hill the dragons had made their temporary roost on. What he was going to do was probably the most incredibly stupid and selfish thing he had done. And he did it for no reason other than curiosity.

And perhaps a desire to not be once more usurped by a man his father considered son.

Though he did have some rational behind his decision. When Rhaegal had moved towards Jon, his anger apparent, Jorah had only one thought in his head, one driven by fear, knowing the bloodbath that would follow should another Stark be set aflame-

_No, no, Rhaegal don’t… NO! Let him mount you, please for the sake of our alliance, don’t kill him!_

And that is what Rhaegal had done. He had screamed in anger and frustration, but let himself be mounted. But before leaving, he had looked at Jorah, of that he was certain. That and the fact that Jorah had dismounted several minutes after Jon and Rhaegal had remained perfectly still while he struggled with his broken ribs.

When he approached their roost, he found Rhaegal curled up with Drogon covering him with one wing. Perhaps it was to keep warm, or perhaps Drogon felt more charitable to his only remaining brother. Both stirred as he stood in front of them.

Drogon removed his wing from Rhaegal and sat up, but not before he nudged him awake with his snout. 

Rhaegal did not sit up, instead choosing to open one eye to glance lazily at Jorah. He could not explain why, but he stepped closer. Rhaegal let him approach, while Drogon gazed at them with interest. He lifted a hand to stroke Rhaegal, when as swift as a viper, with a soft growl, Rhaegal struck him in the chest with his snout, knocking him backwards, leaving him winded. Drogon snapped his jaw at Rhaegal for his roughness.

He should have known better. He gathered his breath and slowly got up so as not to alarm them.

“Forgive me Rhaegal. I have overstepped my bounds.”

Rhaegal gazed at him without any of the anger he had shown a moment ago, Jorah couldn’t look away from him, caught in a trance of sorts. Then again, a dragon was a wonderous creature.

The green dragon brought his head closer, and crooned softly, asking to be pet.

As Jorah obliged, he whispered a question into the night.

“Who did you choose Rhaegal?”

Rhaegal did not answer, instead pulled back and curled up to sleep as he had before. Drogon who had sat quietly, watching them interact, shifted and once again covered his brother with his wing, shielding him from the world around them.

 _Dragons._ Who could understand them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed my plot hole filling extravaganza, and for all the reasons to hate me, the story lines I have weaved together is not one of them.
> 
> Please comment if you have read it so far to let me know I have still have someone interested in this piece. Hopefuly, that would motivate me to finish it after the Jorleesi equinox exchange is over.


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